Music to My Tears
by Liz Roman
Summary: AU for what might have happened if Sam had remained in a coma after Death restored his soul.  See author's note for better summary.  Set Season 6 after Appointment in Samarra.  Lots of Limp!Sam.  Romance with OFC.  No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **Hey guys, this is my first fan fic. Basically, it's an AU of what might have happened if Sam had not woken up from the coma after Death restored his soul, set Season 6 after Appointment in Samarra. I'm planning on it being a mult-chapter fic, and there's going to be some romance for Sam with an OFC. I think Sammy deserves a little lovin'. I mean, even Dean had Lisa (at least for a while). I think Sam has mourned Jessica long enough! (Not that I didn't like her.) I'm also looking for a beta, so if anyone is interested, please read my profile. I do proofread my chapters multiple times, but I'm sure I've probably missed some things. Please excuse any mistakes. I'm also not a medical professional, although I did look up some stuff on Google, so if you're the medical police, please, don't shoot!

**A/N 2: **Probably some spoilers for Season 6 and maybe Season 5.

**A/N 3:** Just want to warn you there are lots of "f" bombs in this story, among other bad language, and there's gonna be some adult situations later on down the road.

**Disclaimer:** Like all of us, love 'em; don't own 'em. Thanks Eric Kripke for creating them! Also, I borrowed the dialogue between Dean and Castiel at the begining of the episode Like a Virgin. It's in italics. Don't want anyone to think I'm claiming that as my own, either.

**Chapter 1**

Sharon and Dr. Davis were discussing the new patient in Room 210, Samuel Blackmore. Azlin pushed the pause button on her iPod to better hear the conversation, pretending to be concentrating on her job, which involved sweeping the floor at the moment. With the earbuds in her ears, no one would guess that she was eavesdropping.

At the Southern Oklahoma Subacute Care and Rehabilitation Center, Dr. George Davis was the head physician, and Sharon Massey was the director and founder of the facility. The door to Sharon's office had been slightly ajar, and Azlin had started listening in when she heard the patient's name.

Samuel Blackmore was sort of a mystery, and Azlin's curiosity was piqued. He was a young coma patient that had been brought to the center a week ago. His brother and uncle had been by his side practically twenty-four/seven and were the talk of the small, hospital-like facility. Apparently, his brother was quite a charmer.

Dr. Davis was saying, "Sam is a 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale—no verbal response, no motor response, no eye opening—not even REM. The odd and rather tragic thing about his case is that there are no indications of any physical trauma, stroke, or disease that would cause a coma of this severity."

Sharon cleared her throat. "Is he on any medication to treat it?"

"No. He is basically just receiving nutritional support through a gastric feeding tube and, of course, hygienic care. I'm also going to recommend passive muscle-stimulation therapy as well as verbal, olfactory, and aural stimulation whenever possible."

"No need for respiratory support?"

"No. There has never been a need, even in the beginning, according to his history. It's like he just went to sleep and has never woken up."

"I see. Very odd, like a real-life Rip Van Winkle," Sharon said pensively.

"His brother, Dean," Dr. Davis continued, "has informed me that he and his uncle have to leave tomorrow but will try to come and visit Sam at least once a month, if possible. It is a shame that there is no family that can at least visit Sam on a weekly basis. I always feel that a familiar voice is essential to a coma patient."

"I'm sure if there were any way possible, Dean would stay. From what I learned from their Uncle Bobby, he and his brother are very close."

"There just has to be something we're missing. Sam was in excellent physical condition, and he's only 28 years old. Why would he all of a sudden slip into a coma?" Dr. Davis sounded completely baffled. "Dean says his brother had been under a lot of stress, but that shouldn't cause a coma unless he had a stroke, and there is no evidence that he did."

Azlin could hear Sharon shuffle papers on her desk. "I don't know, George. All I know is that it's not really our job to diagnose. Our job is to keep him alive and, hopefully sometime in the near future, rehabilitation."

"I know. I know," Dr. Davis said, sighing.

Sharon's voice sounded firm. "But we will give him the best care possible and do our damnedest to get him to come out of it."

"Of course. It's just a shame. The longer he's bedridden, the more his muscles will waste, and it's already been two months. As I said, we will stimulate his muscles passively as much as possible and use electronic stimulation, but that will only help so much. The longer he is comatose, the longer his rehab will be—assuming he even comes out of it."

"Let's not dwell on the negatives, George. Let's just take care of him the best we can."

Azlin heard the scraping of a chair on the floor and movement. She quickly turned her music back on and began sweeping diligently a little farther down the hallway from the office. As Dr. Davis stepped out of Sharon's office, Azlin smiled politely at him.

Dr. Davis nodded back, a faint look of pity on his face at seeing her, and walked down the hall.

The look he gave her stung. George had been a good friend of her parents. In fact, he had been at their house _that _night. He knew how her parents felt about her and how disappointed they had been. Every time she saw him, he had that look, and Azlin hated it. It brought all the guilt, the anguish, the horror of what had happened rushing back. She tried to avoid him, and, most of the time, she succeeded. She'd become a master at avoiding people. Besides, he was usually gone by the time she came to work in the evenings at six.

Azlin swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling constricted. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and she took a deep, jagged breath. _She was not going to fucking cry._ Most of the time, she was able to bury the pain deep inside, but occasionally, something would trigger a tide of emotion and it would hit her hard. She took another deep breath, slowly regaining control. She forced the pain to return to that dark place inside her, and firmly locked it away.

**SWDWSWDW**

For the five-millionth time, Dean was sitting in a chair by Sam's bedside just staring. It was almost hypnotic, sort of like watching exotic fish swimming around in an aquarium, only, instead of fish, he was watching his brother's chest rise and fall in an even rhythm. The steady beep of the heart-rate monitor was the only noise in the room. Sam's naturally swarthy skin looked a little pale, and he was so still, so serene—it was killing Dean. _God, please don't let him be suffering in there. Please just let it be like sleep, no nightmares, no horror._

It was 6:30 in the evening, and the hustle and bustle of the day was dying down. The evening crew of nurses had set up shop at 6:00, and while there were a few family members who came to visit loved ones after they got off work, there wasn't much foot traffic walking by. Sam's room was at the end of the hall on the second floor, and except for the janitor on duty occasionally accessing the supply closet across the hall, it was usually pretty quiet.

Dean was leaving tomorrow. He had to. Sam had been in a coma for almost two months, and Dean had done nothing but be by his side, but during that time, life had gone on all around them. Castiel, Bobby, and this weird Mother of All crap wouldn't wait any longer. Bobby had been contacted by a fellow hunter, and they were needed on a new hunt. Dean had been an observer of Sam's silent, still world for long enough.

Feeling heavy with guilt, he hunched forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs, head in his hands. "God, Sammy, I'm so sorry," he whispered around the lump that had formed in his throat, his stomach knotting. The pain of what he'd done to his brother was crushing, but there was nothing he could do but wait and hope—wait and hope that Death hadn't royally screwed them both when he'd put Sam's soul back in his body.

Death had made it seem like all he had to do was put a "wall" in Sam's head to keep memories of hell at bay, keep Sam from becoming a drooling vegetable, and Sam could be Sam again, instead of the unfeeling, dangerous Robo-Sam that had tried to kill Bobby. At the time, Dean had thought it was worth the risk, but nearly two months of seeing Sam wasting away in a hospital bed had made him severely question the deal he had made.

The conversation he'd had with Castiel the day after Death had restored Sam's soul still haunted him.

"_Well?" Dean had said._

_Castiel's voice was flat. "His soul is in place."_

_Dean, prompting. "Is he ever gonna wake up?"_

"_I'm not a human doctor, Dean."_

"_Could you take a guess?"_

"_Okay." Castiel gave a small sigh. "Probably not."_

"_Well, don't sugarcoat it," Dean said sarcastically._

"_I'm sorry, Dean, but I warned you not to put that thing back inside him."_

"_Well, what was I supposed to do, let T-1000 walk around, hope he doesn't fire?"_

_Castiel got in Dean's face, his voice intense. "Let me tell you what his soul felt like when I touched it—like it had been skinned alive, Dean. If you wanted to kill your brother, you should have done it outright."_

At the time, Dean had hoped, had faith even_, _that Death wouldn't screw him over. Dean had rejected what Castiel had said. Sam would wake up. _Sam would wake up._

But Sam hadn't woken up, and on the third day after his soul had been restored, Dean and Bobby, fearing dehydration and malnutrition, had taken him to the Sioux Falls hospital. They had stuck to the truth as much as they could, saying Sam had been under a tremendous amount of stress and had just lain down and never woken up.

The doctors had all been confounded as to what could have caused Sam to fall into a coma, but were at first optimistic that he would come out of it fairly quickly. After all, they had run every test on him under the sun, and there was nothing physically or neurologically wrong with him that they could find.

The mystery of Sam's condition had caused a furor among the medical community, and for over a week there had been a steady stream of interns, residents, neurologists, and every other kind of specialist or just-plain-curious doctor within a hundred-mile radius trailing through Sam's room. None of them had a clue how to help him. Angry that his brother had been turned into an exhibit, Dean had finally put an end to it.

After four weeks with no improvement, the initial optimism of Sam's doctors that he would wake up had begun to falter, and Sam had been assigned a caseworker to help Dean consider options for long-term care. Dean refused to even consider nursing homes, much to the caseworker's chagrin, but, obviously, he and Sam weren't rich. Subacute care facilities and 24-hour home care were the only things he would consider, but they were incredibly expensive, and he was already worried about the fake insurance he had set up under the name Samuel Blackmore running out or, worse, being discovered as fraudulent.

Dean and Bobby reluctantly discussed caring for Sam at Bobby's house, but that certainly wasn't the best option either. They really didn't have the know-how or time to care for Sam 24/7, but what other option did Dean have? He could learn what was needed to care for Sam if he had to. He might even have to swallow his pride and ask his ex-girlfriend Lisa for help, but there was no way he was going to abandon Sam in some old-folks home.

Finally, after another week, the caseworker had come to Dean with a glimmer of hope. Dean and Bobby had been in Sam's room, and Martha Bradley had practically burst into the room, a force of nature, dark gray pantsuit and long, dowdy gray hair to match, sort of a birdlike thundercloud. But her usual severe grimace was transformed into a bright, exuberant smile.

Dean couldn't help but smile back, although he was somewhat surprised by her entrance, to say the least. He looked at Bobby, who quirked his brows in a _don't-ask-me _look.

Martha was normally staid and very serious. Dean had seen firsthand, however, that she was a good person dedicated to her job. She clearly cared about Sam and what happened to him, and when Dean had refused any kind of care but the best for Sam, she had quirked a brow and said stoically, "All right, then. I'll see what else I can find. I'm not leaving Sam in _your_ care," and had patted Dean's hand in dismissal and looked at Bobby with distaste. For some reason that neither Dean nor Bobby could figure out, she didn't like Bobby.

This day, though, she was practically bursting with energy. She paused briefly, sobering for just a second to raise a disapproving brow at Bobby, and then stood directly in front of Dean, beaming again. "Dean, I did it. I got Sam into a marvelous subacute facility...for a so-ong!" She said the last part in a sing-song voice.

Bobby gave a derisive snort, but coughed to cover it up at the baleful stare Martha directed toward him.

Dean suppressed a laugh. "Awesome. Tell us about it."

Martha had then proceeded to explain how one of her dearest college friends was the director of a small, yet excellent, subacute care facility in a small town in southern Oklahoma. It was a place mostly geared toward patients recovering from severe injuries or disease, such as stroke, but was still fully equipped to care for Sam, even though he would be the only coma patient. "It's a small facility where the patients and caregivers are like family. Because it is so small, I believe Sam will receive the best care possible there instead of falling through the cracks, so to speak, as might happen in a larger facility."

From there, they had discussed the cost, and to Dean's surprise, it was something he could manage without insurance coverage. He would just have to hustle a little more at pool and maybe spend a few more nights sleeping in the Impala or at Bobby's. He suspected there was some charity involved in the deal, which made him uncomfortable, but Martha had been surprisingly vague about it. She probably thought he might refuse if she told him the truth, and for once, he didn't push it. He could swallow his pride if it meant Sam would be well taken care of.

It had taken another two weeks to arrange for and come up with the money to pay for an ambulance to transport Sam to the facility in the small town of Dumas, Oklahoma, which had been a 14-hour trip. Dean had ridden with Sam in the ambulance while Bobby had followed in the Impala.

Now, here they were. Dean and/or Bobby had been by Sam's side almost constantly for a week, and Dean was satisfied by the level of care Sam had received. The nurses had a down-to-earth attitude and treated Sam with respect, speaking to him in their soft country-twang accents as if they assumed that he could hear them, and the physical therapists and doctors did the same.

Dean had also been impressed by the quality of therapy Sam was receiving. In addition to working his muscles extensively several times a day, they made sure to reposition him in his bed faithfully every two hours to prevent pressure sores and stimulate circulation. The therapists and nurses also took every chance they got to stimulate Sam's sense of smell and hearing, bringing various objects and food to hold under his nose and playing music for him regularly, among other things. It was as if there was a collective agreement among the staff to do everything in their power to help Sam wake up.

Dean still felt an enormous amount of guilt at leaving Sam, but at least it didn't feel like he was leaving him with strangers. There was a simplicity of life in this small town that was echoed at the facility. These were honest, god-fearing, hard-working folks who actually took pride in their job and cared about their patients—and their patients' dignity. Dean silently thanked Martha yet again for finding this place. He would owe her for the rest of his life.

No, it wasn't the care here that worried Dean. It was the lack of protection against the things that went bump in the night. Sam was completely helpless against any fugly that might find him. In addition, if Sam woke up—_when_ Sam woke up—most likely, Dean wouldn't be there, even though he planned to visit Sam as often as he could. Dean hated the thought of Sam waking up scared and confused and Dean not being there for him.

But life was moving on around Dean whether he liked it or not. He had to get Bobby back to his home in South Dakota, and they needed to try to figure out this Mother of All thing. Things were getting really weird, and for the hundredth time, Dean wished he had Sam's freakishly large brain to bounce ideas off of. Even Robo-Sam had been good for that.

Dean sighed and looked back up at Sam lying on the bed.

The nurses had positioned Sam on his back again, arms resting at his sides, fingers slightly curled but relaxed. His head on the pillow was slightly tilted to the left side, his usually shaggy hair flattened from constantly lying down. His breath was quiet and even, but there was no other movement from him whatsoever, not even an occasional twitch under his closed eyelids. His once seemingly massive 6-foot-4 frame looked vulnerable, like the bed might swallow him.

Dean couldn't stand seeing Sam so helpless, so _inert_. It was too close to seeing him dead, which made Dean grow cold inside.

It had always been Dean's job to look out for Sam because he was the older brother—it had been ingrained in him by their dad. Although Dean and Sam had both been, literally, to hell and back, and Sam was a grown man, Dean had an overwhelming need to protect him, to save him, and that need would never die.

He needed Sam to move or open his eyes. Hell, he'd take a small, miniscule blip at this point if it was all he could get, but he really needed Sam to wake up, crack a joke, give him the soulful, wounded-puppy, Sam look. He needed Sam to be _Sam_ again so that he wouldn't feel like such a fucking failure.

He clenched Sam's right hand in his own, trying to make Sam feel the desperation eating away at him. His throat tightening, he closed his eyes, willing the tears that were threatening not to fall. "You just need to wake up, Sammy. _Please._"

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Azlin pushed her cleaning cart into Samuel Blackmore's room and was surprised to find the patient alone. True, it was late evening, but in the past week, every time she had gone in to clean and empty the trash, his brother Dean or his uncle had always been in there with him. She had always tried to make herself as invisible as possible, keeping her eyes down and turning up her music so she couldn't hear them if they spoke to her. She didn't know what to say to them, and small talk wasn't exactly her forte.

She made her way over to the left side of the patient's bed, intending to grab the trashcan that sat underneath the heart-rate monitor. As she bent down to pick it up, she found herself eye-level with the sleeping man, face to face with him. He had been positioned on his right side, a long pillow propped against his back and one in front of him that his left arm rested on to help keep him in position. Slowly, she stood up, looking down at him. She hadn't really gotten a good look at him before because she had been too busy trying to evade conversation with his brother and uncle. She hadn't dared to really look at him while they had been in the room.

Although lying on his side, she could still see most of his face, especially if she bent to eye-level with him. He was good-looking, especially for a guy in a coma. She had seen pictures of real people on TV or whatever that were in comas, and they had looked, well, pathetic—their bodies contorted into stiff postures, hands sometimes clawlike, eyes sometimes open, drooling. She had not believed, until she saw Sam Blackmore, that real-life coma patients could look like they did in the movies or soap operas, all quiet and serene and just asleep.

That's exactly how he looked, though, like some movie star pretending to be in a coma, like someone would yell "Cut!" and he would open his eyes and start talking. But he hadn't opened his eyes or talked for almost two months, according to what Dr. Davis had said. She didn't know anything about this guy, but the state he was in was just _wrong,_ and it made her sad.

She felt a little weird staring at him, like she was being rude. She'd probably have a heart attack if he suddenly opened his eyes. He obviously wasn't aware of her, though, and no one else was in the room. She looked around just to make sure it was just the two of them and continued her study of him.

He had a strong jaw and long, dark-brown hair that hit just above his shoulders. Long sideburns added a masculine, sort of hip vibe. A few small moles were scattered about on his face as though whoever had created him wanted to call attention to his best features. If he were a woman—which he most definitely _wasn't—_they would be called beauty marks. There was one on his upper left cheek near his rather pointy (yet somehow still attractive) broad nose and one just to the right of the faint cleft in his chin.

She thought she could see the promise of dimples in the faint lines around his mouth and wondered what he looked like when he smiled. What color would his eyes be, and what would his voice sound like?

He was wearing a gray t-shirt, and she could see that he was muscular, even though he literally hadn't moved a muscle on his own in a while. She was no doctor, but she had seen plenty of patients at the center who were recovering from various degrees of immobility and knew that his muscles must have weakened and started to shrink, at least a little, from disuse. She wondered at how powerful he must have seemed before all this happened if, even now, he still had an athletic build. If he didn't wake up soon, his muscles would continue to atrophy. A visual in her mind of those sculpted arms and legs shriveling made her feel ill, and she quickly pushed it away.

The bed he was lying on seemed longer than what she usually saw in the other rooms, so he must be really tall. She assumed Sharon must have ordered an extra long bed to accommodate his length.

His smooth, tan skin contrasted starkly with the white sheets he was lying on and the white hospital ID bracelet on his left wrist, even though he obviously hadn't been in the sun for several weeks. She looked at her own goth-pale skin and on impulse put her hand on top of his to compare, careful not to jar the clip on his index finger that transmitted his pulse to the heart-rate monitor.

His hand was surprisingly warm and sort of _inviting, _and she felt a strange shift inside her at the contact, letting her hand linger there. She wondered what it would feel like to have his long, elegant fingers entwined with hers.

_Entwined?_ What the hell was she thinking? She snatched her hand back quickly. This wasn't some cheesy-ass romance novel, and she sure as hell wasn't a romantic heroine. She suddenly felt guilty for scrutinizing him so closely, like she had objectified him, sort of violated him in some way. _The guy was in a coma, for God's sake. What the fuck? Had it been so long since she'd been with a guy that she was attracted to a fucking coma patient?_

Ashamed and angry with herself, she hastily turned to go and was shocked when her body collided with the solid male that had suddenly materialized behind her. To her horror, she realized it was the patient's brother. She took a step back but was prevented from escaping by the bed behind her and the man in front of her.

The man—she knew his name was Dean—didn't seem angry. He just seemed so very tired, bone-deep, world-weary tired. There was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, and his eyes were a little red around the rims. He was tall, but his shoulders were slightly hunched, as though carrying some invisible burden. He looked to be about her age, but Azlin had the strange sense that he had seen a lot in his relatively short life, much more than the average person saw in a full lifetime of growing old.

He seemed to shake off the aura of fatigue and sadness quickly, straightening a little and giving her a cocky grin, showing even, white teeth. His eyes crinkled a little at the corners, almost as if he were suddenly amused by her. He had been there only a week and had already charmed every female employee involved with Sam's care, and Azlin could see why. He nodded in the direction of his brother lying behind her and said in a deep, sort of husky voice, "He won't bite, you know."

Although he was friendly enough, she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, mortified that he had caught her staring at and touching his brother. She was just a housekeeper and had no reason or right to touch a patient. She could feel her face getting warm. "I—I'm sorry."

He gave her a million-watt smile, almost flirty, and moved to stand beside her. Looking at his brother, he put a gentle hand on his brother's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. "Doctors say it's good for people to touch him." He gave her a sideways glance. "And talk to him, too."

He turned his attention back to his brother, and Azlin moved away from him toward her cleaning cart and started to push it toward the door, not caring that she hadn't actually done her work in the room. She'd come back later and empty the trash and clean after Dean was gone. Every fiber of her being sought escape, _now_.

"Hey, Sam," she heard him say, "there's someone on staff you haven't met, yet. This is...?"

_Oh, shit_. Azlin turned her head away from her goal—the door—and toward Dean.

He was looking at her, eyebrows arched, silently asking for her name. He wasn't letting her go that easily.

Her throat felt dry, and she wished the floor would just swallow her. She didn't want to be involved with this guy or his brother, even if it was just small talk. She used her neutral, I'm-not-really-interested-in-you tone. "Azlin."

His mouth quirked a little. "That your first name or last name?"

She hesitated a second, debating on whether to engage. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, "First. My last name is Browne."

She tried to turn and leave again, but he motioned her back over next to him, and for some reason, she obeyed. He was cocky and self-assured, like he was used to getting his way, which she found annoying. Normally, she would have given him a fuck-you look and gotten the hell out of there. Despite his cockiness, though, he was gentle and very attentive toward his brother, and she couldn't help but be a little moved by that.

"Sammy—I mean, Sam—" he turned to Azlin and flashed a mischievous grin. "He hates to be called Sammy." He turned back to Sam. "Sam, this is Azlin Browne. She works here at the rehab center, and she's going to be taking care of your room while you're here. Lucky for her you're unconscious, so that should make her job easier. You can be such a slob sometimes."

Feeling a little weird, she said, "Hi, Sam."

Of course, there was no response from Sam, who lay deathly still and quiet.

The silence was awkward, and she felt uncomfortable. She looked at Dean, who was no longer keeping up his pretense of lightheartedness. He was just staring at Sam, a look of raw despair in his eyes. He clenched his jaw and suddenly looked up toward the ceiling, swallowing hard.

His pain was so sudden and palpable, she felt a surge of emotion, her own vision blurring with moisture for a second. What was wrong with her? What was it about these guys? She felt like she was getting sucked into their story, and that was _not_ like her. She wanted nothing to do with most people in general, so what was it about these guys that drew her to them? She needed to snap out of it. She didn't want to feel anything. It was the only way she could survive.

**SWDWSWDW**

Dean was about to cry like a fucking girl, again, this time in front of the goth cleaning chick. It was his own damn fault. She clearly hadn't wanted to stay, almost bolting like a rabbit when he had caught her staring at and then touching Sam.

It was almost nine in the evening now, and he had left Sam for a few minutes to talk to the night nurse, reassuring himself that the evening staff knew what they were doing when it came to Sam's care. It was his last evening with Sam for a while, and he wanted to be sure he had covered all the bases before he left for God knew how long.

When he'd come back to Sam's room, he'd stopped short in the doorway, intrigued by the standoffish cleaning girl that had always ignored him, Bobby, and Sam when she came to clean the room. She was standing on the left side of Sam's bed, staring at Sam as though mesmerized. She had always been so evasive whenever she had been in the room before—listening to loud music on her iPod instead of engaging in conversation—that Dean was surprised by her sudden interest. She was the only person at the little hospital who hadn't made some sort of an effort to speak to at least one of them.

While she was studying Sam, Dean studied her. She was a little taller than average, but not supermodel height. She was still probably five or six inches shorter than he was. She wore a plain, hospital-green scrub on top and jeans and dark-gray Converse sneakers on bottom. Nothing stellar about her attire, but that probably came with the job. Judging by her short, pixie-like black hair, the delicate eyebrow ring in her right brow, and the tiny star tattooed on the nape of her neck, she looked more the artsy, maybe goth type. Not the usual chick you'd find in a small, country town like Dumas, Oklahoma.

Her brow furrowed a little, and she reached forward and very gently put her right hand on top of Sam's. The contrast of her flawless fair skin was almost shocking next to Sam's darker skin. It was strangely charged, the way she touched him, sort of seductive.

Dean had to shake himself mentally and let out the breath he realized he'd been holding. He wasn't usually into goth chicks—reminded him too much of vampires—but there was something definitely magnetic about this one. She was seriously hot in an offbeat sort of way. He was still hung up on Lisa, but that didn't stop him from appreciating the finer attributes of this girl. He felt something sort of like envy that she was touching Sam, but he was glad, too. It was like she was drawn to Sam despite herself, and Dean instantly liked her because of it.

The spell was broken when she abruptly pulled her hand away, blushing. He felt compelled to keep her there for some reason, maybe just to have someone to break the constant silence with—like an actual live, awake human to talk to instead of the TV or a one-sided conversation with Sam—and he walked up behind her.

Before he could say anything, though, she turned around and ran smack into him, anger radiating from shockingly bright blue eyes. She tensed and shot back a step, wary of him. Her eyes darted around for a second as if she were looking for a means of escape.

He was amused by this but wanted to put her at ease. He smiled his Dean-Winchester special and nodded toward Sam. "He won't bite, you know."

She blushed, clearly embarrassed at being caught. "I—I'm sorry."

He noticed she had a pierced tongue when she'd opened her mouth to speak. _Kinda kinky_. He had felt a little flirty, then, and had tried to be glib, making light of Sam's condition because being solemn and upset about it all the time hadn't done him or Sam any good. So, like an idiot, he'd introduced her to Sam, as if Sam would just open his eyes and shake her hand in greeting.

And, of course, there had been nothing but silence, and Dean couldn't pretend anymore. The frustration and pain of it had hit him like a ton of bricks, and now he was staring at the ceiling, swallowing against the swelling of his throat, trying not to cry like a fucking girl in front of a fucking girl.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" she said.

He looked down at her, surprised by her comment. It wasn't really funny, but she was making an effort to keep up the banter, ignoring his emo display of grief. She was looking intently at Sam so Dean could pull himself together, and Dean was ridiculously grateful to her.

He took a deep breath, getting control of himself, and gave a little laugh. "God, if you only knew. He's like a walking Lifetime movie. _Before...this,_ I couldn't get him to shut up." _At least, Sam-With-A-Soul had been that way_, he corrected to himself.

"What caused this?" she said, waving a hand to indicate Sam's sleeping form.

Dean was a little startled by her bluntness, but answered the best he could. "He went through a, uh, trauma right before it happened. It's like his body couldn't handle it, so it just shut down."

She gave him a look that was unreadable. "A trauma like a car accident?"

He sighed. "No. It..." He trailed off, tired of the watered-down half-truth he'd been telling people for the last couple of months.

She looked at him intently, waiting for him to finish.

But he couldn't. What was he supposed to say? _Sam did a swan dive into a cage in hell with Lucifer possessing his body and then came out an unfeeling dick because his soul was still stuck in hell so I made a deal with Death to put his soul back in and he did but this coma is the result. _Dean was so utterly sapped from it all, the pretense, the lies, the fucking horror story that was their life. "It—He—I don't really know—"

She raised a hand to stop him, seeming to disengage. "Sorry. It's none of my business. I should be going." She made a move toward her cart.

Dean put a hand on her upper arm to stop her. "Wait." He suddenly wanted this girl to take an interest in Sam. He trusted the medical staff, but he wanted someone who was sort of an outsider to keep an eye on Sam, let Dean know if anything out of the ordinary happened. The more people on Sam's side looking out for him, the better.

She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. "I need to get back to work."

He removed his hand, but before she could go, he said, "You're into music, right?"

"So?"

"The docs say it's good for Sam to listen to music. It might help stimulate him to wake up."

She waited for him to continue, face blank.

"Something happened to Sam's old iPod, so I bought him a new one. In all the upheaval of moving him here, I kind of forgot about it. I was wondering if you would load some of your music onto it."

"Why me? Why don't you just do it?"

He had a feeling she was gonna love this. "Uh, I'm kind of stuck in the '80s. All my music is on cassettes."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't smile. Never a smile. He thought he saw a hint of dimples, though, as her mouth quirked for a second. "You're not serious."

"Seriously."

"It's 2011."

He raised a brow just a fraction. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

Still no smile, but an eye roll that would rival Sam. "Let me guess. You're a big fan of mullet rock."

He gave her a look of mock affront. "You say that as if that's a bad thing."

"I can't think of anything worse."

"Well, Sam would probably agree with you, and I don't think the music of the Hee Haw variety that the therapist plays for him is gonna rock his world, either."

She gave a derisive snort, dropping her mask of indifference a little. "Yeah. This town is pretty much a music and radio wasteland."

"So, would you mind doing that for him?"

She hesitated for a second, glancing at the door. "Why do you think he'd like my music? You don't even know what I listen to."

"He's always been into that emo, college-radio stuff. He went to school at Stanford, listened to Nirvana, which he thought was _classic rock_."

She raised a brow. "You think Nirvana is emo, college-radio stuff?"

"It's not Zeppelin."

"And you think I listen to Nirvana?"

"Well, you don't seem the Brittany Spears/Justin Timberlake type."

She shook her head and glanced up at the ceiling—almost another eye roll. She looked over at Sam and then let out a deep breath. "Give me the iPod."

Dean smiled. Being irresistible had its privileges. "Thanks. Sam will appreciate it."

She gave him a neutral look, disengaging again.

He walked over to the small closet in the room and got out Sam's duffel bag. He rummaged through it, finding the new iPod and, by accident, the thin leather string bracelet Sam had always worn. He handed the iPod to Azlin and then walked over to Sam's bed. Sam was lying propped on his right side, so his right arm was underneath the pillow that was wedged in front of him to keep him in place. Dean carefully tilted the pillow up and balanced it with his elbow so he could use both hands to tie the bracelet onto Sam's right wrist. "Sorry, Sammy. I forgot about this. No reason you can't wear it again," he said softly.

Azlin watched him quietly.

He indicated Sam's iPod in her hand. "So, uh, thanks again."

She looked down at it, frowning a little. "Yeah." She turned away to leave, dropping the iPod in her back jeans pocket.

"Hey, uh, Azlin?"

She stopped, her back to him.

He took a deep breath. This could get awkward. "Uh, could I give you my cell number, too?"

She turned and looked at him for a second, expression unreadable. "Why?"

"In case you miss me," he joked.

She just looked at him.

Tough nut to crack. He winked at her and tried again. "You know you're gonna miss me."

No reaction, not even an eye roll.

Feeling a little uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, getting serious. "I just—I need you to call me if, uh, you notice anything...out of the ordinary."

"Out of the ordinary?"

He gave her his best I'm-not-a-weirdo smile. "Yeah. You know, like, uh, strange smells, sudden temperature fluctuations inside rooms, uh, people acting different, lights flickering." Okay. No, that didn't sound weird at all. "And," he rushed on, "of course, if you notice anything different about Sam, anything at all, like if his eyes move or fingers twitch or whatever..."

There was nothing distinct in her overall expression, but he got the feeling it was official—she thought he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

"Back up to the out-of-the-ordinary part," she said. "What kind of strange smells?"

"Like, uh, rotten eggs, maybe." He said it tentatively and tried to throw in a charming smile.

"Why would there be rotten egg smells? The kitchen staff here is really good about food safety, and—"

"I know," he interrupted. He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. God, he was so tired. "Look, that's not what I meant. I know it's a weird request, but could you just promise me you'll call if you notice anything strange or off? I know you're thinking I'm crazy, now, but, please, just..." He trailed off, looking at Sam, hoping his give-me-a-break-my-brother's-in-a-coma look would help convince her. Hell, he was entitled to a little crazy weirdness.

She tilted her head to the side, brow slightly furrowed, and Dean could tell she was debating whether to even go there. And then the impassive expression was back. "Whatever. You know I'm just the janitor, right?"

Dean gave her a flirty smile and wiggled his brows suggestively. "Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart."

"You're a dork."

"I'm adorable."

She pulled out her cell phone. "Give me your number."

He told her, and she typed the number into her phone, her midnight-blue polished nails tapping the keys. She had nimble, graceful fingers. When she was finished, she looked up at him. "I've really got to get back to work."

"Sure. It was, uh, nice meeting you."

"Yeah. Right."

"Thanks again."

She started pushing her cart toward the door, not responding. As she reached the door, though, she turned to him again, pensive. "Your name is Blackmore. Like Ritchie Blackmore?"

Dean felt his pulse quicken. Her reference to his and Sam's "last" name had him instantly alert. And, shit, this chick knew her stuff. "Yeah, I guess. Why?" He tried to sound neutral.

"Ritchie Blackmore, the guitarist from Deep Purple." She paused, blue eyes intense and intelligent. "Thought you might have heard of him since you have the same last name, since you like that kind of music," she added.

He tensed, felt a tightening in his middle. _Don't be paranoid_, he told himself. _Don't read meaning into her words. _There was no way she could suspect anything. He looked her in the eye, gave a little smile. He really should have been an actor. He'd had years to perfect the art of lying. "Oh, yeah. _Smoke on the Water._ Friggin' awesome song—one of the greatest guitar riffs of all time."

She stared at him a moment longer, about to say something more, but seemed to think better of it. The mask of indifference dropped into place. "Yeah. Right." And then she disappeared from the doorway.

Dean heard the squeaking of the cart fade away as she pushed it down the hall.

_**TBC**_

_**Please review and let me know what you think. I'm new at this, so any feedback would be appreciated! Thx**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A week had passed since Azlin's encounter with Dean Blackmore. As she pushed the cleaning cart toward Sam's room, she heard dark guitar riffs and bass tones from the song _My Tornado_ by The Raveonettes wafting from inside, and it was kind of weird hearing her type of music being played in such a hospital-like setting. Most of her music was pretty obscure alternative or college-radio fodder. It was a far cry from the country and bad pop that was the usual choice among the employees and patients at the center. For Sam, though, the nurses and therapists had been playing the music Azlin had downloaded, faithfully adhering to Dean's request that they play only the music from Sam's iPod.

Not really knowing what Sam liked, Azlin had transferred a little bit of everything from her music library—new wave from the '80s, Manchester and grunge from the '90s, modern shoegaze and college radio, trip-hop, dance-hall reggae, old country by Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, and some of her favorite classical pieces. She even downloaded some Zeppelin and Black Sabbath to remind Sam of Dean, just in case any of it was actually getting through to him.

Thinking of Dean, she remembered the weird request he'd made for her to call him if she noticed anything strange. There was something strange about _him_, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It was like he was hiding things. She had a feeling he knew more about what had caused his brother's condition than he let on, and if his and Sam's last name was really Blackmore, then she was Barbara Streisand. Maybe their first names weren't Sam and Dean, either.

The obvious answer was that they were criminals of some kind, but she couldn't reconcile that with what little she knew of them. Dean, despite his cockiness and conceit, seemed to care deeply about his brother, and Dean and his uncle had more of a blue-collar vibe than a sinister one. Of course, Dean had charm in spades, so maybe he was a con artist.

And then there was Sam. What the hell was wrong with him? Why wouldn't he wake up, and why had he gone into a coma in the first place? It was very strange, but it didn't make him a criminal—a victim of something, maybe, but not a criminal. He had an air of innocence about him. Of course, why she would think that, she didn't know. Maybe it was because he looked so guileless and defenseless every time she saw him just lying in his bed, unconscious. But, really, who _did _look dangerous when they slept? After all, she knew zilch about him, had never had a conversation with him. It was ridiculous to project innocence onto him and assume he couldn't be some psycho serial killer. Maybe the empathy she felt for him was clouding her judgment, making it difficult to believe he could have been into something shady.

_Whatever, _she told herself. _You don't care, remember? _It was none of her business, and she wouldn't let herself care. Steeling herself, she pushed her cart into Sam's room.

Francine, the evening nurse, was in the process of hanging up a food bag containing a thick, whitish liquid on an IV pole and connecting it to the thin feeding tube protruding from the left side of Sam's abdomen. He was lying on his back, his bed raised to an upright position, legs and feet uncovered. He was wearing gray draw-string pajama pants and a light-blue t-shirt that was pulled up a little to give Francine access to the feeding tube.

Azlin felt a twinge in her stomach. It was disconcerting to see the feeding tube connected to him because, otherwise, he looked so healthy, so normal, so _perfect_. The tube was a grim reminder that he wasn't going to wake up any second, that something was very wrong, that he was completely dependent on others to do the most basic things for him.

Francine smiled when she noticed Azlin and looked absently at her watch. In her twangy accent, she said to Sam, "This ought to take about five minutes, honey, and then we'll give you a nice massage. You had quite a workout earlier with your therapist." She tenderly brushed her fingers lightly through Sam's hair in a motherly gesture. A brief look of compassion flashed across her features.

Francine, in her late forties, was an attractive woman in a Dolly-Parton kind of way. She wore lots of makeup, teased her big bleached-blond hair, and liked to wear her scrubs a little tight to accentuate her boobs. She was also a talker and didn't hesitate to speak her mind. She sat in the big vinyl chair next to Sam's bed and looked at Azlin. "I don't like to do anything to jostle him while the food's going in, so I'm just going to sit here for a sec. Don't want to do anything to upset his stomach."

Azlin gave a faint smile in acknowledgment and began dusting, trying not to encourage conversation.

Francine looked at Sam wistfully. "I sure wish you'd wake up, honey. We could use more cute young men like you around this town. Too many hens and not enough cocks."

Azlin shot a glance at Francine, suppressing a laugh.

Francine gave her a conspiratorial wink. "Girl, just look at his golden skin. I pay fifty dollars a month to look tan like that, and he ain't been in the sun in weeks. I'd have sex with my ex-husband again just to have skin naturally that color, and you've seen my ex-husband." She cringed theatrically.

Azlin couldn't help but smile.

Francine looked Azlin up and down, scrutinizing. "Of course, if I had your gorgeous fair skin, I wouldn't bother with the tanning. Your skin's like fine china. You know, you got that from your mama."

Azlin stiffened, smile gone.

Francine continued, oblivious. "Your mama was a beautiful woman, Azlin. Your daddy—"

"He needs a lot of care, huh?" Azlin interrupted, nodding toward Sam, steering the conversation clear of her parents.

Francine followed Azlin's gaze toward Sam. Frowning, she said, "Lord, yes. Lot's of things can go wrong when a body ain't moving on its own. Every two hours he's got to be turned and massaged to prevent pressure sores and muscle contractures, and massaging and putting pressure on his chest is real important—helps move the fluid that can get trapped in his lungs and cause pneumonia. Did you know we have to clean his mouth every two hours, too?"

Azlin feigned interest. Anything to keep Francine off the subject of her parents. "Really? Why?"

Francine made a sour face. "Well, you know how you have bad breath in the morning when your mouth has been closed all night from sleeping, and it tastes nasty?"

Azlin nodded as she moved around the room, still straightening things and dusting.

"Well, Sam can't eat, drink, swallow, or talk, so his mouth is closed all the time. There's no way for any bacteria to escape, so to make up for it, we make sure he gets oral care every couple of hours. He could develop all kinds of complications, not just oral, if we didn't keep his mouth and teeth clean. And we have to be real careful to suction any fluid, like saliva or nasal secretions, out of his mouth and nasal passages. Since he can't swallow or cough, he's real susceptible to aspiration pneumonia."

"Oh?"

It was all the prompting Francine needed. As Azlin continued to clean, Francine really warmed up to her subject. She went into Sam's regimen, both medical and hygienic, in great detail. Azlin now knew the easiest way to wash Sam's hair, shave his face, and clip his nails, among other things. Now desperate to stop Francine's lecture before she got into really personal territory, Azlin indicated the food bag hanging by Sam's bed with a nod. "Looks like that is pretty much empty."

Francine looked at the bag and then jumped up. "Oh, forever more! I got so caught up in what I was saying I completely forgot about it." She patted Sam's arm. "Sorry, hon." She started unhooking the bag and cleaning things up.

While Francine finished up the feeding, Azlin went into the bathroom and did her work in there, disinfecting everything and mopping the floor. When she came out, Francine was methodically massaging Sam's left leg and foot. Finishing, she pulled the cotton material of his pajama pant leg back down. "Okay. Azlin, sugar, come over here and help me turn Sam over. I think it would be good for him to lie on his stomach for a bit, and that way I can massage his back real good." She looked at her watch. "It's been about thirty minutes since he ate, so his stomach should be settled enough to turn him over."

Azlin froze.

Francine motioned for her to come help. "Come on. Don't be shy. He won't bite."

Azlin rolled her eyes. "So I've heard."

Francine looked a little perplexed as she pushed a button on the bed panel, lowering Sam's bed to the flattest position. "What?"

"Nothing," Azlin said, remembering a similar conversation with Sam's brother. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to—"

"I'm not asking you to perform surgery on him, sugar," said Francine, a little exasperated. "I just mainly need you to hold your hand over the tube on his belly to protect it. It's taped, but I'm going to be jostling him a little to get him on his stomach, and I don't want to take a chance of pulling it out of place." She glanced admiringly at Sam. "This boy's all long arms and legs, and I need an extra pair of hands."

Azlin was still hesitant.

Francine waved for her to come over again. "It won't take but a second."

Reluctantly, Azlin moved over to the side of the bed. "Don't you think you should page Chad to help you?" Chad was the all-purpose orderly on the evening shift.

Francine waved her hand, dismissing the suggestion. "I already did." She pursed her mouth in disapproval. "As usual, he hasn't answered or bothered to show up. You and me can get it done in the time it would take to page him again."

Azlin was suddenly very irritated with Chad.

"Okay," said Francine. "Put on some latex gloves. I'm real particular about touching that PEG tube site. Sam don't need a nasty infection added to his plate."

Azlin reached over and grabbed two sterile, disposable gloves from the dispenser on the wall.

"Now, put your hand over the tubing that's taped and make sure it doesn't get rubbed out of place while I turn him over."

Azlin slowly placed her palm over the thin, snaky tubing taped to Sam's flat abdomen. The gloves were thin, and she could feel the tube—and the pleasant warmth of his skin underneath it. To her embarrassment, she felt her heartbeat quicken and a slow warmth suffuse through her body. _What the hell? _ Why did touching some poor guy in a coma have this affect on her? She was a freak.

Francine was all business. "Okay. On three, I'm gonna turn him over."

Azlin nodded, hoping Francine hadn't noticed the effect touching Sam had on her.

"One, two, three." They began to move in unison, Azlin keeping her hand on Sam's belly as Francine gently turned him onto his stomach, carefully hefting his long arms and legs into a comfortable position. Azlin's hand and part of her forearm ended up underneath Sam's middle, and she felt a little breathless at the continued contact. She stood there awkwardly bent toward him, waiting for further instructions.

"Okay. That's good, Azlin. Now, just ease your hand out from under him and make sure you don't accidentally pull on that tube."

Azlin did as she was told. Now free, she pulled off the gloves immediately and threw them at the trash bin of the nearby cleaning cart. She was horrified and a little baffled by her response to Sam and just wanted to get the hell out of his room.

Francine looked at Azlin with mischief in her eyes. "Maybe _you_ should massage Sam's back. A little back rub from a pretty girl like you has revved up many a male engine. Maybe he just needs a reason to wake up." Again, she winked.

Azlin couldn't stop the warmth of a blush creeping up her neck and fought angrily to get herself under control. What was wrong with her? It was just that she wasn't used to touching people anymore, avoided it like the plague if at all possible. Touch was tied to emotion, and she could live without both, _had _to live without both. She would break into a thousand pieces if she didn't. Trying to keep the anger from her voice, she said, "Yeah, well, I'm not it."

Francine was about to respond when Chad—tall, lean, and wiry, with short spiky hair bleached platinum blond—lumbered into the doorway. Normally, Azlin tolerated Chad because he was kind of goofy and nonthreatening, but the sight of him now just fueled her aggravation.

He gave a bow, imitating a butler. "Ladies," he said in a bad English accent, "may I be of service?"

Francine gave him a dry look. "You're a day late and a dollar short, hon."

Chad's nonchalant attitude made Azlin irrationally furious. Because Chad was a fuck-up, she had been forced to touch Sam _again_, had felt that embarrassing and unwanted attraction to him _again_.Azlin pushed her cart toward Chad and would have run over him if he hadn't awkwardly sidestepped out of the way.

Chad shook his head with mock gravity. "Women drivers."

Azlin flipped him off and hastily pushed her cart out of the room. She clenched her teeth, wishing she never had to step foot in Sam Blackmore's room again.

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks to phyllis16 for encouraging me to keep going. You made my day with your review, so I'm posting Chapter 4 now for you and all you guys who put me on your favorites list. I was going to wait to make sure I didn't want to make any changes, but I think it'll do. Hope you like! And for all you Dean girls (if you're reading this very Sam-based fic), he's coming up in the next chapter (Chapter 5).**

**Disclaimer: Thought I should mention that I name a lot of bands and artists throughout this fic. Not making any money off them or stealing their stuff. I just like them.**

**Chapter 4**

Azlin sat at the desk in the janitor's office/supply closet that was across the hall from Sam Blackmore's room. She yawned, stretched, and glanced at the digital clock that sat on the desk. 1:15 a.m. Her shift was almost over, and she was filling out the check sheets for each room and going over the supply list to see if there was anything she was running low on.

She surveyed the small room. The cleaning supplies neatly stacked everywhere were oddly comforting. She felt safe and hidden among them. She had been sleeping in the janitor's office for several years now, since her old roommate had gotten married and moved out of the apartment they'd shared. She had let the apartment go when the lease was up, having no real reason to justify keeping it. Sleeping in the office was supposed to have been temporary, but she had gotten used to it.

There was an old, seventies-looking couch squeezed into the room that she preferred to her own bed at her family home. Southfork—her dad had jokingly nicknamed it that after the ranch on the TV show _Dallas—_held too many painful memories, so she slept at the rehab center and went to the house late morning just to shower and change clothes every day. She spent as little time there as possible. It was easier to avoid the nightmares and the guilt that way. Besides, she worked odd hours, six in the evening until two in the morning, and it was less hassle just to crash in the office when her shift ended. She was the only janitor during the week, so she could sleep there until nine or ten in the morning relatively undisturbed.

She was about to turn back to her paperwork when she heard the muted sound of guitar music coming from Sam's room—live, acoustic guitar. The door was closed, which was odd. It was usually left open. She sighed and shook her head. It had to be Chad.

She tried to ignore it and continue her work, but he was botching the chords to a Radiohead song so badly she couldn't concentrate. Finally, she slapped her pen down on her desk and walked across the hall, opening the door to Sam's room. As she thought, Chad—whose hair today was hot pink—was sitting in the vinyl chair next to Sam's bed. Chad's eyes were closed tightly, head bent over the guitar in concentration and melodramatic emotion. He was torturing the instrument—and probably Sam, too, if Sam could hear it—with all his heart and soul.

She was certain Sam would be cringing if he could, but, as always, his brow was smooth, eyes closed, face placid. He was on his back, bed inclined a bit, head rolled a little toward Chad. His arms were folded on his stomach, and the bed blanket was pulled up just past his waist.

Since the incident months ago where Francine had coaxed Azlin to help with Sam, Azlin had never gone in his room again without her iPod on, loud music blaring from her earbuds. She had kept an eye on Sam from afar out of some weird loyalty to Dean, but had tried to avoid close contact with Sam or even go near his bed unless she absolutely had to. She refused to be dragged into any other conversations with Francine or any person on the staff who might be in his room. Francine had tried several times to talk to Azlin anyway, but Azlin had pretended not to hear her, fervently cleaning and too busy to be bothered.

This was the first time Azlin had really scrutinized Sam in weeks, and her heart sank. Although the change had been gradual, she realized he looked much thinner than he had when he had first been brought to the center. His meals were perfectly balanced with all the nutrients and calories his body needed (as she had learned from Francine's diatribe), so it wasn't that he was not getting enough sustenance. It was because his muscles were shrinking. He had been comatose for five and a half months, by Azlin's calculations, and even with all the therapy he was receiving to try to prevent it, it had been too long. The muscle waste was inevitable.

She had an odd urge to put a hand on him, to comfort him in some way even though he wasn't aware, but she didn't dare. _Don't care. Don't care. _Instead, gesturing at the guitar, she said to Chad, "I think you just need to shoot that thing and put it out of its misery."

Chad stopped in mid-strum and glared at her. "Don't interrupt a genius at work." He began playing again.

Azlin stood there for a minute, growing more and more annoyed with each wrong chord. "Look, I'm trying to finish up my paperwork across the hall, and I can't concentrate with that racket going on."

He ignored her and kept playing.

Getting mad, Azlin reached over and squeezed the neck of the guitar, making it impossible for Chad to keep playing. "What are you doing in here anyway?" she said. "Your shift doesn't end for another thirty minutes."

Chad arced his head quickly from side to side, moving his lips, mimicking her. "Who died and made you the shift police?"

Azlin canted her head in a sarcastic pose. "Who died and made you Coma Patient Torturer of the Month?"

He sighed, every inch the long-suffering artist. "For your information, I got permission from Sharon to play my guitar for Sam whenever things are slow on my shift. It's good musical therapy for him and good practice for me."

Azlin rolled her eyes. "Has Sharon actually heard you play?"

His mouth tightened in irritation. "Like you could do better," he challenged.

Without thinking, Azlin had her hand out reaching for the guitar, motioning with her fingers to hand it over. "I can."

He got up, handed her the guitar, and waved at the chair with a flourish. "Be my guest, Charo."

She rolled her eyes again. He was such a tool.

She sat in the chair and positioned the guitar comfortably, poised to play, when long-dormant emotion hit her. She felt dizzy and a little ill, like all the blood was rushing to her head. Her hands began to shake.

It had been eight years since she had played a musical instrument. Creating music had once been her greatest joy, her life's blood, especially when she and Ramsey, her boyfriend—her soul mate—had created music together. But he had disappeared and taken the music with him. She hadn't played guitar or anything else since the day she had come to the agonizing realization that Ramsey wasn't coming back.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm. It was just a fucking guitar, and it had been _eight_ years. She had refused to play because of the pain, because Ramsey had taken a vital part of her away, and she felt a gaping hole inside herself whenever she had tried to play.

And, of course, it was her punishment, too, because her parents weren't coming back, either. They had died because of her, could no longer hear her music anymore. What right did she have to feel the joy of it, that soaring feeling she got from playing guitar or piano, the shear euphoria, when everyone she loved was no longer there to hear it? They could no longer feel anything, so why should she?

"Azlin," Chad said, frowning, "are you all right?"

She swallowed, barely able to hear him above the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to dam herself against the tide of emotion. _Just play. Just play. __Just play. You know you want to. _

She concentrated on the feel of the guitar, the weight of it, the tautness of the strings, the _beauty_ of it. She let it call to her, entice her. Unable to resist, she tentatively plucked a string, and then another, and then another, the blood still roaring in her ears. She wasn't really hearing what she was playing, but she was feeling it, was a part of it. It was inside her. She felt a familiar buzz, a thrill, that had been embedded in her for as long as she could remember and that she had denied herself for far too long. Something painful and dark began to uncoil and loosen a little, and time seemed to stop.

She wasn't sure how much time passed, but, finally, she became aware of her surroundings again. She stopped playing, and was surprised to feel wet warmth on her cheeks. She touched her face with her fingertips. Tears.

She flexed her fingers. They felt strangely stiff from playing—a feeling she never would have felt eight years ago because she was never away from her guitar for very long.

Chad was sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, facing her, an odd, dazed expression on his face.

They sat for a few moments in silence, both speechless.

Breaking the ice, Chad bent forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. "What the fuck was that?" It wasn't said in anger; it was said in wonder.

"What—what do you mean?" she stuttered.

Chad straightened. "Do you realize you played nonstop for an hour?"

She was shocked. "What? No way. I..." She trailed off, noticing the clock on the wall. Chad was right. It had actually been a little over an hour. It was almost three.

She handed the guitar back to him abruptly and stood. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

He stood and put a finger over her lips to silence her. He laid the guitar gently on the chair and firmly placed is hands on either side of her face, compelling her to look up into his eyes. "My God, Azlin. Don't apologize. You just stole a piece of my soul."

She closed her eyes for a moment, moved by the simple, poignant words.

He slowly released her, shaking his head in amazement. "You played stuff from The Shins, The National, Pixies, Radiohead, Black Lips—even fucking _Beethoven_. Some of it I had never heard before, but it was completely awesome. Was it something you wrote?"

She shook her head vaguely, unable to answer. Had she played some of her stuff? She hadn't really been aware of what she was playing, just playing whatever felt right and enjoying the pleasure she got from it.

He gave her a quick, fierce hug. "Doesn't matter." Hands still on her shoulders, he met her eyes again earnestly. "_Please _say you will do that again."

Azlin shook her head, about to protest, but he ignored her, his dark eyes taking on a far-away glaze, like he wasn't seeing her anymore. "You should play in my band. We need a decent guitar player." His eyes grew bright with excitement. "We practice twice a week. Oscar and Nick live in Dallas, and Pete lives in Denton, so we meet in Denton because it's sort of in the middle. We rent a storage unit there to practice in." He suddenly looked sheepish, aware of her again. "I've been playing lead guitar, but, _obviously_, you could teach me a thing or two."

Azlin opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"Dude, I had heard things about you, but I..."

Azlin stiffened.

He gave her a little squeeze, noticing her discomfort. "Never mind. The point is, you have to share that...that _gift_ with others. It's a crime to keep it to yourself. You—"

"Chad, stop!" She raised her voice, trying to break through to him. "I am _not_ going to start playing for you or anyone else. It was a one-time thing!"

"But—"

"I don't play anymore," she said firmly, lowering her voice. "This was a mistake that I don't intend to let happen again."

Chad's eyes widened and he made a frustrated noise. "Why the fuck not? What possible reason could you possibly have for not wanting to continue doing _that?"_

She didn't like the tone of his voice. _"_It's none of your fucking business."

He scrubbed his hands through his spiky pink hair and began to pace. "That's crazy. That's—that's...it's selfish, is what it is!" He stopped pacing abruptly in front of her, his voice suddenly soft. "You enjoyed it, too. Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't."

She looked him in the eye and lied calmly to his face. "I didn't enjoy it."

"You're lying!" He angrily turned his back to her, facing Sam.

"I'm tired," she said, feeling drained, and headed toward the door.

"Azlin," Chad said, an odd hitch to his voice, "look."

"Chad," she said, her exasperation rising again, "I never should have played that guitar. Please, just let it go."

He looked at her, a stunned expression on his face. "Azlin, you need to come here and _look_."

She glanced at where Chad was gazing and immediately felt the blood drain from her face, her heart almost stopping. She moved closer to the bed and stared in disbelief. Underneath Sam's closed eyelids, there was movement. His eyes were moving—a lot.

Chad's eyes were wide as saucers. "Holy shit! We gotta call Dr. Davis." He pressed the call button on the side of Sam's bed, and when a nurse answered, he explained with excitement what was happening and instructed them to call and wake up Dr. Davis immediately.

Azlin's heart began to beat faster once the initial shock began to wear off. _Dean_. "I've got to call his brother."

Chad nodded.

While Azlin pulled out her phone from her pocket and looked for Dean's number, two of the nurses from the early-morning shift hurried into the room and started checking Sam, talking to him, encouraging him to wake up.

Azlin watched them as she heard Dean's phone ringing on the line. It went to voice mail. "Fuck," she muttered to herself. "Come on, Dean." It was just past three in the morning. Maybe he had slept through the ringing. She dialed his number again.

She heard Evelyn, one of the nurses, speaking with intensity. "Sam? Sam? Can you hear me? Come on, honey. Let us see those eyes." She was patting his face and squeezing his hand.

Linda, the other nurse, was writing furiously in Sam's chart and watching the monitor. "He's not responding. The REM is slowing down, becoming intermittent."

Evelyn—a large grandmotherly-looking lady—frowned. "Come on, Sam. You can't tease us like this, sweetie. We know you're in there."

Azlin could still feel her heart beating rapidly as Dean's phone rang again on the line. She prayed that he would answer. Finally, she heard a gruff, groggy voice slur, _"'s Dean."_

A little breathless, she said, "Dean? This is Azlin Browne, from the rehab center."

"_Azlin?"_ His voice was instantly alert, not as drowsy sounding. _"Is Sam okay?"_

"Dean," she said, "Sam's eyes are moving."

"_What?"_

"I don't know if it means anything, but we had Dr. Davis called. He should be on his way."

"_Wait a minute. Sam's eyes are moving? Like, did he open them?" _She could hear hope in his voice.

"No. He didn't open them—at least not yet—but they're moving, like, you know, rapid eye movement, REM sleep."

Silence.

"Dean?"

"_Yeah. I'm here."_ A pause, and then he sounded in control, urgent. _"Look, I've got to call Bob—my Uncle Bobby, make some arrangements, and then I'll be on my way. Tell Dr. Davis to call me as soon as he's taken a look at Sam."_

"Sure."

"_And, of course, call me or tell them to call me if Sam wakes up."_

"Yeah. I will," said Azlin.

"_I can be there by late tomorrow night."_

"Where are you?" It wasn't her business, but she was curious, and the question had slipped out.

"_Northern Ohio."_

It was a long drive, a really long drive, especially if he was alone. She had a vague memory from somewhere that Sam had been brought there from South Dakota, so she had assumed that's where they were all from. She wanted to ask Dean why he was in northern Ohio, what he did that would take him there, but it was none of her business, and now certainly wasn't the time to indulge her suspicions and give him the third degree. She heard rustling in the background and knew he was already packing. "Dean?"

"_Yeah?" _

"Be careful."

Silence; then, _"I will. Tell Sam I'm on my way. Okay?"_

"Sure."

Then there was a click, and he was gone.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin waited with Chad in the hall outside Sam's room while Dr. Davis examined Sam. They had both been too wired to go home, so they had waited the thirty minutes it took for Dr. Davis to get to the center. Unfortunately, by the time he had gotten there, Sam's eye movement had already stopped completely, like it had never happened. Sam was as unmoving and quiet as ever. If Evelyn and Linda hadn't witnessed the movement too, Azlin could almost believe she and Chad had imagined it.

Finally, Linda—dark-haired and petite—opened the door and motioned for them to come back in. Dr. Davis, who was a stocky, gray-haired man in his sixties, was standing by Sam's bed. He pulled his glasses off and frowned pensively, arms folded over his chest. "So, I need you two to tell me exactly what was happening in here when you noticed Sam's eyes moving."

Azlin met Chad's eyes. She wasn't sure where to begin.

"It was the music," Chad blurted out.

Dr. Davis looked perplexed. "What?"

"Azlin was playing the guitar for us—Sam and me—and I happened to look over at him and noticed his eyes were moving," said Chad.

Azlin rolled her eyes. "That's not exactly how it happened," she said dryly.

Chad's mouth tightened. "It's pretty freakin' close."

"Azlin?" said Dr. Davis.

She looked away from him for a second, unable to make eye contact when his gaze was directly on her. She always felt uncomfortable whenever George was around. She took a deep breath. "I was finishing up my paperwork when I heard Chad trying to play the guitar in here."

Chad bristled. "_Trying?_ Thanks a lot!"

Azlin ignored him. "Chad sort of...challenged me, so I ended up playing his guitar for a while to show him I could. Then Chad and I sort of got into an argument, and that's when he noticed Sam's eyes were moving."

Chad huffed. "It wasn't the argument that Sam responded to," he said sarcastically.

"How do you know?" said Azlin, annoyed. "Last I checked, you're not a doctor."

Chad looked at Dr. Davis. "It was her music. You should have heard her, Doc. She's amazing! Sam's eyes were probably moving long before we actually noticed."

"Oh, come on!" Azlin threw her arms in the air in aggravation. "You have no idea when his eyes started moving. It's probably all a coincidence, anyway."

Chad continued, ignoring her. "I had my back to Sam while she was playing, and I was completely enthralled—"

"Big word there, Chad," Azlin interrupted. "Try not to strain yourself."

Chad turned back to her, eyes blazing. "Why are you being such a bitch? I'm paying you a compliment. I know you have your reasons or whatever for not playing—your family or whatever—"

"You have no right to bring that up," said Azlin, her voice low and dangerous. She clenched her fists tightly at her sides, almost shaking with barely-controlled fury.

Chad met her eyes defiantly. "Something happened in here when you were playing that guitar, Azlin, something _extraordinary_." With an acerbic bite, he added, "Yeah. I know. Another big word."

Azlin's jaw tightened, and she took another deep breath, trying to quell her anger. She noticed Linda and Evelyn quietly watching the whole exchange and felt self-conscious.

Chad turned back to Dr. Davis. "I'm telling you, Doc, it was almost surreal."

Dr. Davis was quiet for a moment, chewing on one of the arms of his eyeglasses. Finally, he said quietly, "I've heard Azlin play before, Chad, several times, and not just the guitar. It was a long time ago, but I'll never forget it." He had that look that Azlin hated, the one with the pity and sorrow. "It was, indeed, extraordinary."

Azlin looked away from both of them, arms folded angrily over her chest.

Dr. Davis sighed. "The way I see it, there's an easy way to resolve this. We're going to hook up Sam to an EEG machine to measure his brain waves. So, Azlin, after we do that, you can just play the guitar for a bit and we will be able to see if Sam responds to it."

Azlin laughed in derision. "This is ridiculous. My playing a fu—freaking guitar is not going to wake a guy up from a coma."

"How would you know?" Chad mocked, repeating her words. "Last I checked, you're not a doctor."

Dr. Davis took on a clinical tone. "It has been proven in many studies, Azlin, that music has a profound effect on humans and can assist in the stimulation and therapy of coma patients. It may not be the reason for Sam's sudden...stirring, but there's strong evidence that it's not out of the question."

She turned back to them and gestured with her hand. "Fine. Play all the music you want for him, then. He's got an iPod full of music. Why does it have to be me sitting in here with a guitar?"

Chad gestured with his hands in frustration, speaking before Dr. Davis could. "For crying out loud, Azlin! You know there's a big difference between live music and a recording. Listening to an iPod just doesn't have the same rush as being there with the performer in the flesh—especially someone with your fucking talent!"

Dr. Davis cleared his throat and raised a brow, conveying his disapproval of the "f" word.

Chastened, Chad lowered his voice, but he was still intense. "_You_ know that better than anyone."

She was getting really tired of his innuendos about her past. "Okay. Fine. Be my guest, Chad. It's _your_ guitar. You play for Sam!"

"Hmm," Chad said, "I believe your words were that I should just 'shoot it and put it out of its misery.'"

God, she wished he'd shut up. "Stop throwing my words at me, Chad."

"I don't mind 'trying' to play for him, but I admittedly don't have your touch, your technique," he said with sarcasm. In a more sober tone, he added, "Although I'd love the chance to learn."

Azlin refused to respond.

In that same serious voice, Chad said, "It wasn't me he responded to, Azlin. It was you."

She looked at Sam, so silent and still, so achingly tragic. _Why didn't you just wake the fuck up? _she wanted to scream at him, as if he had somehow done this on purpose, tantalized them only to leave them unfulfilled. She was being totally irrational, she knew; but, dammit, the guy was comatose, and yet she kept getting into these uncomfortable situations involving him. God help her if he ever actually woke up.

Everyone in the room was quiet, looking to her for her answer.

It made her mad that they were putting her on the spot like this, especially for something so crazy. Playing a guitar wasn't going to make Sam come out of his coma. That kind of thing only happened in the movies.

She felt backed into a corner, and she wasn't having it. Maybe she was being stubborn, selfish even, but it was too much to ask. True, she hadn't shattered into a million pieces after playing Chad's guitar tonight, but she needed more time to think about what had happened. If she was going to even think about playing again, it was going to be on her terms and on her time frame. She looked around the room at everyone and then rested her eyes on Chad. "No."

Chad groaned, rubbing a hand across his face. "Azlin—"

Dr. Davis put a restraining hand on Chad's shoulder and shook his head in warning.

Azlin shored herself up and headed for the door. "It is now four in the morning, and I'm _done_." She surveyed the room, silently daring anyone to contradict her.

She got several looks of disapproval, but no one tried to stop her.

Once out of Sam's room, she crossed the deserted hallway into her office, her refuge, and quietly closed the door. She leaned against it, feeling heavy with regret. _Sorry, Sam. I'm fresh out of miracles._

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: As promised, here's some Dean. Sorry if he's a little OOC, and sorry if the curse words bother some of you. The people in this fic just don't listen when I tell them to stop. They just roll their eyes at me.**_

**Chapter 5**

By the time Dean had arrived at the rehab hospital the night after Azlin's call, Sam's condition was exactly the same as when Dean had visited him briefly three weeks before—and all the other times he had visited. The EEG monitoring Sam's brain waves showed no change when compared with the readings from the first month of Sam's coma and those taken periodically since. Sam wasn't brain dead, but he wasn't responding to any outside stimuli.

To Dean, Sam's eye movement was like a dream that hadn't really happened. If four people hadn't witnessed it, he would be hard-pressed to believe it. He wished to God he had been there to see it himself.

Sam's doctor and nurses had done all kinds of tests on Sam after Dean had arrived—playing different kinds of music from the iPod; letting Chad, the orderly guy, play his guitar; and having Dean talk to Sam—but nothing had caused even a blip on the EEG. He still didn't respond to pain stimuli, either.

There was one test they hadn't been able to perform—duplicate the exact circumstances of the night Sam had moved his eyes. Apparently, that involved one very stubborn and uncooperative goth chick. From what Dean understood, at least from Chad's side of the story, it was Azlin's music that Sam had responded to, but she had refused to play for him again. Worse, she had split after that night, and no one knew where she had gone. She had just left a note that she would be gone for a couple of days—a couple of days that had stretched into five.

Dean had been skeptical when Chad had told him about it. It seemed a little far-fetched, to say the least, that Sam would respond to some girl playing a guitar when nothing else had worked. It seemed even weirder that said girl would refuse such a small thing when it might possibly help a guy wake from a fucking coma, for Christ's sake. Who could be that heartless?

"Dude," Chad had said, "if you heard her play..." He had trailed off, shaking his head in awe. "The girl's a fucking genius. And like all geniuses, she's a bit fucked up in the head, tragic past and all that shit. But the way she plays," he kissed his fingertips like an Italian talking about his mama's cooking, "it's sublime."

So here Dean was again, keeping vigil by Sam's bedside, and the waiting and unfulfilled hope was starting to weigh him down.

Sam was lying in exactly the same position he had been placed in by the nurse an hour and a half earlier, an inanimate object, the faint rise and fall of his chest his only sign of life. The sun from the window illuminated his skin, and small sensors were stuck to his forehead for the EEG. They had him propped on his side facing Dean, and Dean saw again how much Sam had changed physically. His once muscular, Sasquatch-like physique was gone, and his t-shirts fit him loosely now instead of hugging his body. He looked almost boyish, reminding Dean of when Sam had been a teenager.

Dean sighed and leaned back in the chair he was sitting in. He felt handcuffed by indecision. He really needed to get back to hunting and help Bobby, but he was afraid to leave Sam in case something happened again. He wished Azlin would come back and play her damn guitar for Sam so they could see once and for all if it had any effect on him.

Dean pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number she had called him from The Night Sam Moved His Eyes—it should be proclaimed a holiday, like Pearl Harbor Day or something. Her phone rang a few times and went to voice mail, as it had the other ten times he'd tried to call her. He stuffed his phone back in his jeans pocket and rubbed his fingers across his mouth in frustration. No one from the center had been able to contact her, either, not even the director, Sharon.

_Hell, you'd think the chick would be afraid of getting fired._

Even odder was the fact that no one seemed that concerned that she had been gone for so long. No one questioned it; they had just hired a temporary person to fill in until Azlin came back. Of course, there was a general consensus of disapproval that she had been so unreasonable about it all, but they all just chalked it up to Azlin being eccentric. "She marches to the beat of her own drum," Francine had said.

_Must be nice,_ thought Dean. He wondered what the angels would think of Azlin.

It had probably been a fluke. Azlin playing the guitar probably had nothing to do with Sam moving his eyes, but there was no way Dean was going to leave Sam again until he knew for sure. If it was just a freak incident and there wasn't any one thing that had caused Sam to respond, Dean would have to leave again. Otherwise, he could be sitting here twiddling his thumbs for God knew how long.

But what if Azlin's playing did have some bizarre miracle effect on Sam? What if it was a way to get through to Sam, to finally reach him? Dean had sure as hell seen things much stranger than that in his fucked-up lifetime. He had to know for sure, and until Azlin returned, he couldn't leave. So where was she?

Dean's focus rested again on Sam. "I'm supposed to be talking to you, Sammy, but I'm running out of things to say. I could use a little help here."

Sam's arm rested over the pillow that was wedged next to his chest and abdomen, and Dean noticed Sam's wrist still had the leather bracelet Dean had tied on it. Well past the point of worrying about chick-flick moments, Dean reached out and began rubbing the back of Sam's hand with his thumb and then frowned. Something about Sam's skin didn't feel right. Dean grasped Sam's hand more firmly to get a better feel and then felt Sam's forehead. It was too warm.

He was about to reach for the call button and summon a nurse when there was a quick knock at the open door. It was Dr. Davis and the cute, early-shift nurse Linda, the petite brunette.

Dr. Davis nodded in greeting. "Hello, Dean. I'm just making my rounds and wanted to come check on Sam."

Dean stood. "I'm glad you're here, Doc. I was just about to call someone." He nodded his head toward Sam. "I think he feels a little too warm."

Dr. Davis's brow furrowed in concern, and he looked at the nurse. "We'd better take his temp."

Linda promptly obeyed, putting a digital thermometer in Sam's ear and waiting for the beep. "It's a little elevated, 99.4."

Dr. Davis scrunched up Sam's t-shirt and removed the pillows keeping Sam on his side. He held Sam in place with one hand while he used the other to move the chestpiece of the stethoscope around on Sam's back and chest, frowning. "I'm hearing what sounds like some congestion in his lungs." He glanced a the monitor by Sam's bed, squinting a little. "Pulse ox is at 93 percent."

Dean's heartbeat quickened. "What does that mean?"

"It's a little below an acceptable level. It means his blood is a tad low on oxygen." Dr. Davis put the pillows back in place around Sam and then faced Dean. "As you and I have discussed before, comatose patients are at high risk for developing pneumonia, even if they aren't on a ventilator."

Dean felt a knot tighten in his chest.

"It could be nothing," Dr. Davis continued, "just a cold, but in Sam's case, we don't want to leave anything to chance. I'm going to order a lung sample and have it sent to the lab to see what we're dealing with."

Dean tried to clear the lump from his throat. "A lung sample?"

"Yes." Dr. Davis must have noticed something in Dean's demeanor because he patted Dean on the back in a comforting gesture. "Don't worry. It's nothing too invasive. We will put fluid in his lungs and then suck it back up and send the specimen to the lab. If it is pneumonia, hopefully we've caught it early enough that antibiotics will knock it out."

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out through his mouth, nodding.

Dr. Davis gave the nurse instructions and proceeded with the rest of his examination of Sam.

Dean stood and watched, hating the way Dr. Davis and the nurse were able to maneuver Sam around as if he were a rag doll, and tried not to panic at the thought that Sam might be developing pneumonia.

When they were finished with the exam, they put Sam in a prone position, and Linda began pushing down hard on either side of Sam's back with the heels of her palms.

Dean raised his brows. _What are you doing to my brother?_

Dr. Davis answered the unspoken question. "Linda is putting pressure on Sam's lungs, trying to stimulate his cough reflex. Sometimes this works with coma patients and helps clear some of the congestion."

Of course, there was no coughing from Sam.

After a few more tries, Dr. Davis said to Linda, "It's okay. You can stop. It was worth a try. We'll leave him on his stomach for a while. He doesn't seem to be having trouble breathing, which is good."

"What about the lung sample?" said Dean.

"Someone will be in shortly to perform it." Again, he put a sympathetic hand on Dean's shoulder. "If it is pneumonia, Dean, it's in the early stages. Hopefully, we've caught it early enough that it won't be life-threatening."

**SWDWSWDW**

It was definitely pneumonia, and it was life-threatening. It had been caught in the early stages, but whatever type of pneumonia it was, it was resistant to antibiotics and very aggressive.

Dean had watched helplessly for the past four days as Sam's condition deteriorated. With each passing day, they had added more tubes, more wires, more monitors. Yesterday, Sam's breathing had become rapid and his lips and fingernails took on a bluish tinge, so they had put an oxygen mask on him. Today, Sam's fever had spiked to 103.2, and Dean was worried sick.

He stood by Sam's bedside and brushed the back of his fingers across Sam's forehead. Sam's skin was parched and much too hot, his cheeks were flushed, and his breathing was labored, even with the oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. He was lying on his back, his bed inclined almost to a sitting position.

"You couldn't get a normal kind of pneumonia, could you, Sam?" Dean said, absently brushing a stray strand of brown hair away from Sam's face. "You had to get the most stubborn, resistant kind possible." Dean's throat felt thick, and he squeezed Sam's hand, mindful of the IV. "You better fight this, Sammy," he said gruffly. "You can't let something this ordinary kill you, not after everything you've been through."

**SWDWSWDW**

A day and a half later, Sam's struggle to breathe had worsened into a horrible wheezing sound, and Sam's doctor had been forced to put him on a ventilator. One look at the grave look on Dr. Davis's face, and Dean knew it was time to call Bobby.

"Bobby," he'd said shakily, "Sam's worse."

Bobby must have heard the anguish in Dean's voice because he'd stated simply, _"I'm on my way."_

After calling Bobby, Dean had tried calling out to Castiel, praying to him in desperation, but Castiel—the elusive bastard—hadn't responded. So, feeling useless and still needing to do something, Dean had called Azlin's phone again. He didn't know exactly why. Obviously, there was nothing she could do for Sam now—probably never had been—but Dean felt like a caged tiger. He needed to take some sort of action because he was on the verge of falling apart, barely holding himself together.

There was, as usual, no answer, so he left her a voice mail. "Azlin, it's Dean. Sam's real sick—pneumonia—and, uh, I don't really know why I'm calling, but I guess I just thought you should know. I know you can't do anything for him. It's stupid of me to call you. I mean," he gave a sharp, shaky laugh, "you don't even know him—or me. Why should you care, right? Yeah. Just ignore this message. Okay? I'm obviously losing my mind. I just—I just don't know what to do."

And then he'd ended the call, feeling like an idiot, and almost collapsed into the chair beside Sam's bed. Exhausted, he leaned forward and lay his head on the bed next to Sam's arm, feeling fevered heat radiating from it. He had a sudden and fierce need for some kind of contact with the only family he had left in the world and gently wrapped his hand around Sam's forearm. Closing his eyes, he let the rhythmic swooshing sound of the machine that was breathing for his kid brother lull him to sleep.

**SWDWSWDW**

Thirteen hours later, Dean was sitting in the vinyl chair next to Sam's bed. Dean was convinced the chair would forever have his butt print molded into it—and he was going to have a permanent back injury from sitting and sleeping in it for so long. He was trying to watch TV but was having a hard time concentrating on the show about pro bass fishing. TV these days sucked if this was the best there was to offer. He was about to flip through the million worthless channels yet again when a scruffy, weary-looking Bobby appeared in the doorway.

Dean stood as Bobby made his way into the room. He embraced Bobby tightly and didn't let go for several seconds. "Bobby?" he whispered, feeling an unwelcome yet increasingly all-too-familiar tightening of his throat.

Bobby returned the hug and then pulled back. He looked over at Sam's unconscious form meaningfully and then back to Dean. "How you holding up, son?"

Dean shrugged, getting his emotions under control. "I'm fine."

Bobby looked Dean up and down with narrowed eyes. "Uh-huh." He didn't sound too convinced.

Dean changed the subject. "Thanks for coming, Bobby. You must have shagged ass to get here."

Bobby rubbed his eyes tiredly and raised the bill of his trucker cap to scratch underneath. "Just stopped occasionally to powder my nose and grab a nutritional snack," he said dryly.

Dean gave a short, tired laugh.

Bobby moved over to Sam's bed and put a hand on Sam's arm in a paternal gesture. He was silent for a moment, taking in all the tubes and wires coming out of Sam and the artificial rise and fall of Sam's chest. He put a hand on Sam's forehead and furrowed his brow. "He's burning up."

Dean cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah. Since they haven't found antibiotics that will work, they're letting his fever stay elevated, hoping it will fight off the bacteria or virus or whatever it is naturally. His fever's been hovering around 103. If it gets higher, they'll give him a fever-reducer, but, right now, they're keeping him well-hydrated and watching it closely."

After studying Sam another moment, Bobby said, "He's awfully...thin."

Dean swallowed thickly. "Yeah. His muscles are, uh..." He trailed off, knowing he didn't need to finish. Bobby had been there when the doctors had explained all the complications Sam would face if he remained comatose long-term.

Bobby sighed and bent closer to Sam, patting his arm. "Sam? It's Bobby." He let his hand linger on Sam's arm for another moment. "Hang in there, kiddo." He gave one last squeeze before pulling away, worry etched on his face.

Dean turned off the TV and pulled up a smaller chair from the far corner of the room. Bobby plopped down in the big vinyl chair, and they talked about Sam's condition for a while. Then their conversation meandered to their latest hunt and Eve's plan as the Mother of All—and ways they might stop her.

Dean had lost track of time and was surprised when Francine, the evening nurse, came in to suction Sam's breathing tube and administer his 'supper,' as she called it. Dean hadn't realized how late in the day it was.

She checked the monitors by Sam's bed and then began the suctioning process, inserting a suction catheter into a port in Sam's breathing tube and using a compressor on the other end of the catheter to create the vacuum.

Dean knew it was done to help clear Sam's lungs since he was unable to cough, but he was glad Sam wasn't aware of what she was doing. The catheter was inserted all the way down inside Sam's lungs, and Dean cringed at the thought of it.

As usual, though, Sam was completely limp and quiet, oblivious to what Francine or anyone else did to him.

Francine was good at her job, and she efficiently and deftly got it done without ever interrupting the steady hiss of the ventilator. Then she turned her attention to Sam's 'supper' and pulled back his t-shirt to reveal the feeding tube protruding from the left side of Sam's flat belly, hooking it to the food bag she had brought in.

Bobby began to fidget, seemingly embarrassed.

Dean had become desensitized to all the poking and prodding required to care for Sam and didn't give most of it a second thought. He was a little surprised by Bobby's discomfort, especially since Bobby had been around the first two months of Sam's coma and had pretty much seen everything.

Francine, always Talkie McTalkerson, began chattering away as she worked.

Both Dean and Bobby fell into a morose, tired silence and responded halfheartedly to her chatter with grunts or nothing at all.

She gave them a gimlet eye. "Y'all both look too pooped to pop. Why don't you two give Sam some privacy while I work with him and get yourselves some supper and a good night's sleep?"

Dean wasn't really hungry, but he knew he should be. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real meal. Still, he was reluctant to leave Sam, especially for the whole evening and night. He glanced over at Sam. The noise of the ventilator and the beeps from the monitors were comforting in a way. As long as they made noise, it meant his brother was still alive.

Francine put a hand on Dean's shoulder, a look of understanding on her face. "He'll be fine, sugar. I promise I'll call you if there's any change."

Dean nodded, and both he and Bobby stood.

"Yeah. Come on, kid," said Bobby. "When's the last time you had a full meal and a real bed to sleep on?"

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. He had gotten a motel room when he had first arrived in town but hadn't slept there since Sam had developed pneumonia—had just gone there to shower and change clothes.

He looked again at his little brother lying so ill and helpless. Dean had neglected the mundane necessities of life because, compared to what was happening with Sam, everything else had seemed trivial; but Francine and Bobby were right. He needed a break. "You swear you'll call if you notice any changes?"

Francine began gently pushing him toward the door, her large bosom quite pronounced in the purple scrubs she was wearing. "Sure, honey. You know I will. Now, go have you a supper that'll stick to your ribs. We wouldn't want that nice ass of yours to start disappearing." She gave him a saucy smile and pinched his butt.

Dean did a double-take and raised his brows. He was used to Francine's outrageous flirting, but the pinch on the butt took him a little off guard.

Bobby laughed and shook his head.

Francine shot them a wide-eyed look of innocence, as if nothing had happened. She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Now, get on out of here and go take care of yourselves. I don't want _three_ sick tomcats on my hands."

Looking back at her, Dean said, "Take good care of him."

Francine gave a sharp nod and said with conviction, "Like he was one of my own, hon."

And Dean believed her.

**SWDWSWDW**

Dean walked down the hallway toward Sam's room. It was almost two in the morning. He and Bobby had eaten dinner fairly early and were both exhausted, so they had gone to their rooms. Dean had collapsed on his bed around eight, intending to watch a little TV, but had fallen asleep instantly. His sleep rhythms out of whack, he had woken up at around one o'clock fully awake. He'd actually gotten around five hours of deep sleep, which, for him, was a lot. He sometimes went for days with a lot less.

He'd thought about doing laundry, but figured there wasn't likely to be a 24-hour laundry mat in a small town like Dumas, and he was antsy to check on Sam. He took a quick shower and put on the last of his clean clothes and headed back to the small hospital. The staff was pretty lax about visiting hours where Dean was concerned. Although the doors were locked at ten, they always let him in, if he wasn't there already, and didn't make a fuss if he stayed all night.

As he approached Sam's room, he was surprised to find a big-haired Francine and a green-haired Chad in the hallway huddled by Sam's door, which was very slightly ajar. They were peeking through the crack, rapt expressions on their features. Francine was the first to notice Dean, and she silently put a finger to her lips, shaking her head.

Dean frowned, not understanding at first, but as he got closer, he heard it—the sound of a guitar. After listening for a moment, he was surprised and amazed by the sounds he was hearing emanating from a single guitar. It was impossible not to be. The complex, hypnotic strains of the music infiltrated his emotions, and he felt something like intoxication, a rush of pleasure. Simply put, what he heard was fucking awesome. He now understood what Chad had been trying to tell him. Dean certainly wasn't an expert on guitar music—especially if it wasn't of the _Stairway-to-Heaven_ variety—but even he knew that what he was hearing was special.

The song ended, and Francine and Chad both looked at him with huge grins on their faces, looks that said, _Well?_

Dean nodded slowly and smiled back, silently letting them know he understood.

Azlin was back, and the sister could _play_.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: Any thoughts? Likey? No likey? Any kind of review would be helpful-just don't cuss me out, please. I hope this chapter didn't totally suck.**_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is long and convoluted, so I appoligize in advance. I've hacked it to death, and this is the best I could come up with. If you can slog your way through it, hopefully the next chapter will be better. Thx to all who have reviewed and favorited. You have no idea how much I appreciate it!**

**Chapter 6**

It was almost two in the morning, and Azlin took the fire escape stairs up to the second floor. Since Sam's room was at the end of the hall along with the stairs, she would be able to get to his room without anyone noticing her. She knew her return, whatever the time of day, would cause a stir, and she just didn't want to deal with that right now.

Azlin had gotten Dean's message by accident. She had turned her phone off after the first few days she'd left because its constant ringing was driving her crazy. She had been bombarded with calls from Chad and others from the rehab center. Needing time to think, she hadn't wanted Chad, George, Sharon or anyone else hassling her about the whole stupid guitar thing. She hadn't taken a vacation in years, and after what had happened with Coma Boy, she had felt it was a good time to skip town for a while.

She had finally turned her phone on to order a pizza, of all things, and was annoyed to find a million messages on her voice mail. The most recent one had been from an unknown caller, but she recognized the number as Dean Blackmore's cell. In fact, there had been several missed calls from that number but only a few actual voice mails. She almost didn't listen to it, thinking Chad or George had recruited Dean to hound her, too, but she couldn't resist her curiosity. As she listened to the message, her blood ran cold, and she almost dropped her phone, her fingers going numb. _Fuck._ Sam had pneumonia.

Although Dean hadn't gone into any details, the desperation she had heard in his voice was enough to tell her that it was serious. He had sounded so lost, so distraught.

Azlin felt overwhelmed with guilt, as if somehow it was her fault. Why had she been so weird about everything, so pigheaded? Why had the possibility that Sam might have responded to her music been so disconcerting? Of course, the fear of a panic attack like the one she'd almost had before she'd played for Sam that first time had been very real, but all her hang-ups suddenly seemed so insignificant now. She had been writing music practically day and night since she had gotten to her family's lakeside cabin and had actually been _okay_. It was as if, after eight years of drought, the flood gates had opened.

She had brought her guitar with her just to see what would happen, just to see if she would have the nerve to play again. Just as in Sam's room, once she had gotten past the initial panic, she had been caught up in the joy and awe of the music she was capable of creating. Once she had finally started, she couldn't stop.

Hearing Dean's message, though, had brought her artistic retreat to an abrupt end. She had needed to see Sam again, had needed to know if he would be okay. And she had an overwhelming urge to find out if, by some strange miracle, he would actually respond to her music again. Maybe it was her chance at redemption.

So now she was standing outside his room, guitar case slung over her shoulder. She'd driven all afternoon and evening to get back to town and had then waited even longer to go to the rehab center, until she knew there was a good chance no one would be in his room. To her relief, when she peered into the dimly-lit room, no one was there. She knew that Dean stayed late with Sam whenever he came to visit, and since Sam was so sick, she wouldn't have been surprised if Dean had been staying the night by Sam's bedside.

Quietly, she entered the room and shut the door behind her. When she got a good look at Sam, her heart stuck in her throat, and she froze where she stood. The Sam she had left almost two weeks ago hadn't looked like this. He had looked like the fake-coma guy, the good-looking actor who might wake up any moment and smile and start talking. This Sam looked like he belonged here, in a hospital—someone who was gravely ill.

The room was pretty much dark except for the lights softly illuminating Sam's bed, and there were beeps—some intermittent, some steady—coming from the monitors near it. A maze of wires and tubes connected him to the monitors and IVs—an IV on the back of his left hand, one on the inside of his right wrist, and one in the crook of his left elbow. Even worse, a plastic tube protruded from his mouth which was connected to large blue and white hoses leading to a ventilator, and he looked pale despite the bright, feverish pink spots on his cheeks. His chest moved up and down in reaction to the machine that was steadily pumping air into it, and the thought that he could no longer breathe on his own terrified her.

Azlin felt a lump in the pit of her stomach, and her legs suddenly felt like Jell-O. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Putting one foot woodenly in front of the other, she slowly reached the side of his bed. She wanted to touch him but was afraid she might hurt him somehow or mess up one of the wires or tubes. Even his forehead had some sort of sensors stuck to it.

Finally, she found the courage to lightly touch his cheek with the tips of her fingers and winced. His skin was way hotter than any human's should be.

She let her fingers brush his cheek for a moment longer. "Hi, Sam. I've come to play for you." She had a random thought that she had sounded like the Little Drummer Boy, and a sharp, almost hysterical laugh escaped from her. She felt unhinged, on the verge of tears. Trying to curb the irrational emotion, she looked away from Sam and sat in the chair by his bed, her hands shaking a little as she took her guitar out of its case.

She forced herself to focus on Sam, and her hands stopped trembling. Nothing else seemed to matter. Any qualms she might have had faded into the background, the pain from her past only a dull ache. There was only the present, the here and now, and Sam.

At one point, she heard the click of the door handle and sensed she was being watched, but she didn't turn to look. It didn't matter. A few moments later, though, as she started another song, she said without looking up, "You can come in."

As Azlin continued to play, she heard the shuffling of footsteps and then saw Francine checking the monitors on the other side of Sam's bed.

"Dean," Francine said in a hushed voice, "there's activity on the EEG. He's responding."

Dean appeared beside Francine, his features intense. Leaning over Sam, he put a light hand on Sam's chest and with his other hand gently brushed his thumb back and forth on Sam's flushed cheek. Voice gruff, he said, "Sammy? It's me, Dean. You in there?"

Francine's voice was still low but laced with an undercurrent of cautious excitement, like she was trying not to scare a skittish animal. "Dean, keep talking to him. The waves on the EEG jumped when you spoke to him."

Azlin's heart began to beat faster, but she forced herself to remain calm and keep playing.

"Come on, Sam," urged Dean. "You need to wake your lazy ass up. Naptime's over."

"Holy crap!"

Startled by the outburst, Azlin looked toward the door, noticing Chad for the first time.

"He just moved his eyes!" Chad's loud voice was out of place in the quietly-charged atmosphere of the dim room.

Azlin's playing faltered as she directed her gaze quickly to Sam's closed eyes. She thought she saw something, but wasn't sure.

"Keep playing," Dean commanded, never taking his eyes off Sam.

She resumed.

Dean picked up Sam's lax hand, grasping it firmly palm to palm, heeding the IV. "Sam," he said, his voice stern like a parent would use, "it's been long enough. Open your eyes, man. Right now."

There was no visible response from Sam, and the only sounds in the room were the hissing of the ventilator, the incessant beeping of the monitors, and Azlin's music.

Francine motioned to Dean to keep talking. "It's okay. His heart rate has gone up a bit," said Francine encouragingly, "and the needle on the EEG is still moving."

Azlin felt the tension in her body ratchet up a notch.

"Sam," said Dean, "you remember how you used to wake up at the crack of dawn every day when you were little to watch cartoons?" Dean, still gripping Sam's hand, used his other hand to absently straighten and smooth the beige bed blanket covering his brother, even though it wasn't wrinkled. A faint, nostalgic smile played across Dean's features. "You used to drive me nuts—never let me sleep late."

Sam's eyes began to roll again under his eyelids.

Azlin suddenly felt as tight as one of her guitar strings. She felt like she might snap at any moment, but she kept playing softly, keeping her eyes on Sam and Dean.

"I used to pretend that I wasn't awake just to aggravate you," said Dean, his voice ragged and strained with emotion. He stroked Sam's face with his knuckles, the motion of his large, rough fingers shockingly tender.

Sam's eyes were still moving, and Dean put his thumb, touch light as a feather, on top of one of Sam's twitching eyelids. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, as though savoring the feel of actual movement from Sam, however small it was. He released his breath in a short laugh. Without hostility, he said, "Is this how you're getting back at me? If so, you win." Then his voice became a harsh whisper. "Come on, man. It's time to wake up."

Azlin watched the two brothers with bated breath. Anticipation and hope seemed to be palpable in every inch of the room.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dean seemed to deflate a little and looked over at Francine.

Azlin saw that Sam's eyes were no longer moving.

Francine shook her head, a look of compassion and sorrow on her face. "I'm sorry, hon. Nothing's showing up on the machines anymore."

Dean's throat was working, and he closed his eyes, disappointment etched on his face. Mastering his emotions, he turned and patted Sam gently on the chest. "It's all right, Sam. We'll try again later." Then he turned a weighty stare on Azlin, his brows furrowed expressively, silently questioning, daring.

Azlin had, at some point, stopped playing without realizing it and now felt frozen to the chair. However, she met his stare head-on before finally saying, "I'll be here."

**SWDWSWDW**

After the drama of the night before, Dean had been too wired to sleep and had stayed the rest of the night by Sam's bedside in case anything else happened. Of course, nothing had. Still, it had been a start. He was elated that, at least, _finally_, Sam had shown some sign of life. After six months of cold-marble-statue silence, Dean had seen firsthand that Sam was still in there somewhere. Not that Dean had ever doubted it—he couldn't allow himself to doubt it—but it was nice to have confirmation, however small.

Sam was the first stop on Dr. Davis's morning rounds that morning, and he stepped into Sam's room around seven, Nurse Linda in tow.

Dean stood and shook his hand and nodded to Linda, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Dr. Davis smiled back and then indicated Sam's unconscious form. "Well, Dean, I heard we had quite a lot of excitement in here last night." He moved over and peered at the monitors by Sam's bed, paying close attention to the EEG, and then looked at Sam's pupils with a penlight.

"Yeah," said Dean. "That's Sam. Always the life of the party."

Dr. Davis chuckled.

Linda stuck a thermometer in Sam's ear and waited for the almost instant beep. Looking at the result, she pursed her lips and raised her brows in surprise. "Temp's down to 102.3."

Dr. Davis raised his eyebrows and looked at Dean, echoing Linda's surprise. "Well, that's interesting." To Linda, he said, "Let's order another chest x-ray and see if his lungs might look any clearer."

Linda nodded and gave Dean an optimistic smile.

Dr. Davis flipped through Sam's chart and, still reading, said to Dean, "Fever's down over a half a degree today after hovering around 103 for some time." Head still tilted down, he looked over the top of his glasses. "It probably doesn't seem like much, but let's hope it's a sign Sam is finally starting to make some progress in fighting this off."

After he finished his routine examination of Sam, Dr. Davis pulled off his glasses and moved closer to Dean, who was not far from the foot of Sam's bed. Chewing on the tip of one of the arms of his glasses, he said, "So, I understand our resident prodigy has returned."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. She came here in the middle of the night last night and gave Sam a little concert."

"According to Francine and Chad, the EEG was registering activity while Azlin was playing the guitar, even before you began talking to Sam yourself?"

Dean felt a small stab of annoyance, which he knew was stupid. He should be—and he was—just happy Sam had responded to _something._ It was just disconcerting that the _something_ was a stranger and not Dean. Pushing the thought away, he said, "Yeah. He was spiking the EEG and then began to move his eyes for a bit when I started talking to him."

Dr. Davis thought for a moment. "I'd like to get Azlin in here again and do some experimenting—you know, have her play for him at different times of the day and time lengths and see what happens. And, of course," he added, "have you talk to him with her playing and without her playing and see what happens."

Dean nodded in agreement.

Dr. Davis looked at his watch and grimaced. "I'm anxious to get started on this, but it's probably still too early to wake her now. I'm assuming she probably hasn't been asleep for long." He thought for another moment and then shrugged his shoulders, a wily look crossing his face. "Maybe I'll just open the door and see if she's asleep."

Dean was confused. _Open what door?_

Dr. Davis moved with purpose to the door of Sam's room and left.

Dean gave Linda a questioning look. "What's he talking about? I have Azlin's phone number on my cell if he wants to call her."

Linda smirked and shook her head slightly. "He doesn't need it. Azlin sleeps across the hall."

Dean was surprised. "What?"

Linda inclined her head toward the door. "She sleeps in the janitor's office across the hall."

"I thought it was just a supply closet."

"It is," said Linda, still faintly amused. "It's also an office, and there's an old sofa squeezed in there that Azlin sleeps on."

Dean frowned. _What the hell?_ _And he hadn't noticed this?_ "How long has she slept there? Is she homeless or something?"

Linda laughed.

He wondered why that was funny.

Still laughing, Linda said, "No. She's not homeless, and I think she's slept there at least as long as I've worked here, which is about five years."

"Huh. Does anyone besides me think that's a little nuts?" Not that he could talk. He'd slept in the Impala enough times, but that was what he did out of necessity, not what run-of-the-mill people with regular lives did. Of course, Azlin wasn't exactly run-of-the-mill.

Linda shook her head. "That's just how she is. I guess it makes sense in a way. Since her shift ends at two in the morning, she can just go in there and crash. Besides, she's obviously a little strange. She's got issues."

Dean wanted to know more, but he could now hear voices in the hallway. Curious, he headed for the door. He had to see this for himself.

Dr. Davis was standing in the hallway, and a rumpled, disgruntled-looking Azlin was leaning against the doorway of the closet or office or whatever it was. She blinked bleary eyes. "You think you could have waited just a couple more hours, George?" She sounded sleepy and pissed off.

Dr. Davis seemed momentarily surprised that she had called him by his first name, almost pleased, but quickly recovered and raised his hands in supplication. "I'm sorry, Azlin. I was just hoping that you might already be awake."

She gave her bright blue eyes a good roll. "Yeah. Right." She noticed Dean and Linda in the hall behind Dr. Davis. "Are you two in on this?"

Dean quirked his brows.

Linda's eyes widened. "What?"

Azlin waved her hand, trademark eye roll. "Never mind." She was wearing the same formfitting black t-shirt and torn jeans she'd had on last night—which had only been about four hours ago—and she looked bed-head sexy, her short black hair a little mussed. She had curves in all the right places, including a very nice rack—not that Dean was looking. Before, she had always been wearing unflattering scrub tops, and they had not done her body justice.

Sighing, she reached for her guitar case, which was propped just inside the door of her office, and slung it over shoulder.

Dr. Davis backpedaled. "Azlin, if you'd rather sleep a little longer—"

She shook her head tiredly and yawned, giving him a dour look. "Too late. I'm already awake now. I would kill for some hot tea, though."

_Tea?_ Dean didn't think she looked much like a tea sipper.

Dr. Davis turned to Linda. "Would you mind getting us all some coffee, Linda, and some hot tea for Azlin?"

Linda's mouth tightened, but she nodded in acquiescence.

Azlin left Dean and Dr. Davis standing in the hall and disappeared into Sam's room.

Dr. Davis met Dean's eyes and winked.

Dean stared at him for a moment, confused. _What just happened here?_

When Dean and Dr. Davis entered the room, Azlin had already unpacked her guitar and was sitting down in the vinyl chair by Sam's bed. She looked at Sam, taking in his unconscious state, the ventilator, all the tubes and wires. She hesitated a second, a frown flashing across her features, and reached out and lightly touched the fingers on Sam's hand. It was so quick Dean almost missed it, and so..._caring_.

But he _had_ seen it, and he felt a remnant of the enormous frustration he'd felt after her disappearing act. Why had it been such a big deal just to play her freaking guitar for Sam? Why had she left? She obviously wasn't totally indifferent to Sam. Had she gotten Dean's last message? Is that why she had suddenly come back? Dean moved over to the other side of Sam's bed from her so he could see directly into her face. Unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice, he said, "So, uh, Azlin, did you have a nice _vacation_?"

Her features darkened for a split second, but then her usual mask of indifference fell into place. "It was great, Dean," she said with false politeness, and then she trained those startling, sharp blue eyes directly on him. "How's _work_?"

_Touché, _he thought, not missing the innuendo in the question. For some reason, she wasn't buying what he was selling, and it made him a little uneasy. "Oh," he said, matching her tone, "things have been a little crazy lately."

"And what is it you do, exactly?"

He smiled, but he knew it didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I _help_ people."

She looked down and cleared her throat. The mask had slipped a little.

It had been a risky thing to say, the part about helping people. It might have invited a lot of questions he didn't want to answer, but he had hit the intended target; and in that moment he knew she felt at least a little guilt over bailing on Sam. Dean was gratified to know it. The ice queen was human after all.

**SWDWSWDW**

Three days later, Dean and Bobby watched as Azlin unpacked her guitar yet again. It was late afternoon.

The last few days, after extensive testing of different scenarios in which Azlin would play for Sam, and Dean and Bobby would talk to him, the consensus was that Azlin's music acted as a sort of portal into Sam's consciousness, and once it had been opened, then he would respond to Dean's voice and sometimes Bobby's. Without her playing, though, they couldn't elicit even a small jump on the EEG.

The first few times, Sam's responses, on the surface, seemed all too brief. But as each day progressed, each hour they worked with him, they realized that his eyes were moving a little longer and his brain waves spiking for longer periods of time on the EEG. Dean thought that he had even felt a miniscule twitch from Sam's hand at one point, but it had been so fleeting he couldn't swear to it.

With each reaction from Sam, Dean's hope grew.

Dr. Davis had been cautiously optimistic when he had sat down and talked with Dean and Bobby on that first day of the sessions. They had gone to the tiny cafeteria of the rehab center and were talking over cups of coffee. It was late afternoon, and the cafeteria was relatively quiet in the lull before dinner.

Taking off his glasses, Dr. Davis had said, "It is remarkable that Sam is affected by Azlin's music the way we have seen. I've never heard of anything quite like it, although music has long been known to be a valuable therapeutic tool."

Dean was exhilarated by the fact that they were finally getting through to Sam, although he should have been exhausted since he'd gotten up at one that morning. "How long 'til he comes out of it?"

Dr. Davis had sighed. "Quite honestly, I have no idea. We're dealing with a lot of unknowns here. Since we don't know why Sam slipped into the coma in the first place, it's hard to predict how long it might take him to come out of it, or even if he will come out of it."

Dean frowned.

Bobby cleared his throat. "What are you saying?"

Dr. Davis sighed again and shook his head. "Waking from a coma is not like you see on TV. Comatose patients don't just suddenly wake up and start talking and everything's fine. It can be a very slow process, and, as I said, we don't know what caused Sam's condition in the first place. Since there is no evidence of brain damage, I am optimistic that he will come out of it eventually, especially given what we've seen in the last few hours."

Dean couldn't help but smile.

Bobby's features had been neutral, cautious.

"But," Dr. Davis had warned, "Sam's case is unusual, and we're entering unknown territory here, Dean. There is also a possibility that we may not see much improvement beyond what we've seen today. He could remain like this indefinitely."

Dean had felt bile rise in his throat and shook his head in denial. "No fucking way."

"Dean," Bobby had reprimanded mildly, putting a hand on Dean's arm. "He ain't saying that's what _will_ happen." He eyed Dr. Davis. "You're just laying all the cards on the table. Right, Doc?"

"Right." Dr. Davis rubbed his eyes and put his dark-rimmed glasses back on. "I just want to make sure you go into this with your eyes open."

Dean had chosen to ignore Dr. Davis's warning. Sam was going to wake up—Dean refused to accept anything less—and since Sam had fallen instantly into the coma when Death had restored his soul, why couldn't he come out of it quickly, too? Obviously, it wasn't going to be instantaneous like the movies, or he'd already be awake; but Dean refused to believe that it might take years or might not get any better than what they had already seen. Sam was getting closer to the surface. Dean could feel it.

"On the upside," Dr. Davis had said, taking a sip of coffee, "Sam's chest x-ray showed improvement today. His lungs looked a little clearer."

Dean had taken in a relieved breath.

Bobby had remarked dryly, "Maybe Azlin should start touring the faith-healing circuit."

Now, three days later, although Sam still had a fever, it had remained on the downside of 102, and if his chest x-rays continued to show improvement, they would try weaning him off the ventilator soon.

Azlin sat with her guitar in her usual spot, the vinyl chair by Sam's bed. With the threat of the pneumonia lessening, the atmosphere in Sam's room had been more lighthearted, and even Azlin had seemed a little more open, less aloof. "Okay, Sam. What are you in the mood for this afternoon?" She glanced up at Sam, who lay mostly on his back but was propped a little on his side, still hooked to the ventilator. Her eyes lingered on his unconscious profile for a moment.

Dean hovered near Sam's ear and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "How about a little Celine?" Then he looked at Azlin. "Sam especially loves her song from Titanic."

Azlin rolled her eyes and showed the ghost of a dimple—the closest she ever came to an actual smile.

"James Blunt?"

She looked at Dean like he'd grown twenty heads.

"_You're Beautiful_? Now that song is right up Sam's alley."

"For a mullet rocker, you seem to have a vast knowledge of really cheesy music."

Dean cocked an eyebrow in Sam's direction. "He's a bad influence."

Eye roll.

"He's half girl."

"All men are half girl."

Dean eyed her dubiously.

"You know, the whole XY chromosome thing," she said.

"Not me, sweetheart." Dean was being deliberately obtuse.

"Oh, please," Bobby groused, rolling his eyes.

Azlin shook her head slowly in disbelief, her lips tightening slightly.

Dean smirked. It was almost as much fun annoying her as it was Sam.

To her credit, she had been in Sam's room for at least fifteen minutes almost every hour during the day since that first day—usually longer—as per Dr. Davis's request. Sam seemed to respond best if they worked with him in short, frequent intervals.

Azlin had gone back to work as much as she could in between sessions with Sam, and the temporary housekeeper had stayed on to help take up the slack. The largesse of the hospital and its staff amazed Dean. Sharon, the director, hadn't blinked an eye when Dean and Dr. Davis had approached her and explained how they needed Azlin's help with Sam. Sharon had approved their request and adjusted Azlin's work schedule with no questions asked.

Azlin seemed to be at the rehab center almost twenty-four/seven, since the supply closet doubled as her bedroom. Dean still thought that was weird, even if no one else did. He had asked Sharon if he could help compensate Azlin for the extra hours she was logging in because of Sam, had hinted that maybe Azlin needed some extra money, but Sharon had been vague about it, saying only that Azlin would be taken care of.

Azlin showed up almost like clockwork when it was time to play for Sam and didn't seem to mind how much time it took out of her day, although it was kind of hard to tell with her because she was so hard to read. The only time she ever let her guard down was when she was playing her guitar.

"This is something I wrote." She began a slow, haunting melody that morphed into something with a stronger, more enticing beat.

Dean and Bobby glanced at each other, both silently impressed by the song they'd never heard before. A few minutes into it, Dean watched the EEG, which he had learned how to decipher enough to know when Sam was reacting, and saw the spiking on the monitor that he was looking for.

Dean and Bobby both talked to Sam for several minutes, and Dean was pleased at how Sam was responding. Again, he thought he felt Sam's hand flinch, and Dean's pulse quickened. He was sure he wasn't imagining it. He squeezed Sam's hand—which was still too warm from the fever—but felt nothing in return.

After a few more minutes, Dean could feel Sam getting weaker, getting further from him. He motioned to Bobby to start talking to Sam again. Sometimes if they switched speakers, it would spark another response.

While Bobby was talking, Dean saw a flash of blue hair dart in and out of the doorway and smiled to himself. Chad had been lurking around Sam's room—his evening-shift duties permitting—whenever Azlin played in the evenings. Azlin had been distant toward Chad, and Dean had sensed tension between them. It was obvious that Chad desperately wanted to hear Azlin play any chance he got but was reluctant to intrude.

Azlin's dark head was bent over her guitar in concentration, and Dean didn't think she had noticed Chad. He was surprised when she said, without looking up, "Tell that idiot to go get his guitar."

Dean glanced at Sam. No more eye movement and almost nothing now on the EEG. Dean was disappointed, as he always was, when Sam stopped responding. It was as if his brother was was trying to breach some invisible barrier but didn't have the strength to break through, and Dean hated it when he could see Sam start to slip away again.

Bobby was still talking to Sam, and since Dean sensed things were dying down, he went out in the hall to find Chad.

He raised a brow when he saw Chad leaning against the wall near Sam's door, hands in his pockets, eyes focused on the floor.

Chad looked up. "I'm early," he said, sounding a little defensive. "Shift doesn't start for another—," he looked at the cell phone that he'd fished out of the pocket of his scrubs, "—thirty minutes."

"Azlin said to go get your guitar."

Chad's eyes grew wide and he grabbed Dean's shoulders. "Holy shit. Are you serious?"

Chad was taller than Dean, nearly as tall as Sam, and Dean felt a sharp ache at the reminder. He missed his Sasquatch brother, even though for the last ten years of his life it had irked him that his little brother had outgrown him. "That's what she said, dude."

Chad pumped his fists and clenched his eyes shut in victory. "Yes!" Then he took off down the hall in a run as though his life depended on it.

**SWDWSWDW **

Azlin woke to a persistent knocking on the door of her little office. It was eight-thirty a.m., and her circadian rhythms were off because of the odd, sporadic hours she'd been keeping. Although she'd been going to bed earlier than her usual two-thirty a.m., she still hadn't gotten used to getting up before ten. She bunched up the soft, velvety blanket she used when she slept on the avocado-green and harvest-gold-striped fossil that still vaguely resembled a sofa. Yawning and stretching, she reached for the doorknob, expecting to see Vivian, the part-time housekeeper who had been picking up the slack on Azlin's job and who had filled in for Azlin when she'd taken her little "vacation." Instead, she opened the door to Sharon Massey, the director of the rehab center.

Azlin rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "Sharon?"

The attractive, trim, red-haired woman in her mid fifties smiled warmly. "Azlin, could I talk to you a minute?"

Azlin moved aside and motioned for Sharon to enter the tiny space. Once Sharon sat down on Azlin's "bed," Azlin closed the door.

Sharon, proper and businesslike, looked completely incongruous sitting on the tattered sofa.

Azlin sat down in her desk chair, wondering why Sharon had sought her out.

Sharon pasted an innocuous smile on her face, and Azlin knew that wasn't a good sign. She was probably in for another lecture. It had been a while since she had gotten the you're-wasting-your-life talk.

Sharon gazed at Azlin fondly for a moment, looking her over.

Annoyed, Azlin stared back, a little defiant.

"Dean Blackmore came to my office the other day," Sharon began. "He and George explained the miraculous way your music seems to be affecting Sam and asked if I would allow you to work with them and adjust your hours accordingly."

"And?" Azlin wondered where this was going. Obviously, Sharon had consented. Azlin had been helping with Sam for several days now.

"Dean was also worried how you were going to be compensated for all the extra hours you're putting in. He wanted to be sure you would be treated fairly. I think he's very grateful to you and feels like he owes you." Sharon looked pointedly at the sofa and pile of blanket and pillow on one end, but kept a straight face. "I think he thinks you don't get paid enough as it is."

Azlin smiled to herself and glanced down at her lap a moment before looking back at Sharon. "What did you tell him?"

"I was vague. Told him not to worry, that we'd take care of you."

"Good."

Sharon sighed, exasperated. "Azlin—"

"Don't."

Sharon reached over the small gap between them and placed a hand on Azlin's knee. "It's been eight years, Azlin. When are you going to stop playing the noble housekeeper and get on with your life?"

Azlin's jaw tensed. "There's nothing wrong with being a janitor. It's honest work. We've had this conversation before."

"Yes, we have. I was just hoping, since you'd started playing again, that—"

"That everything would suddenly be all roses and happy endings?"

Sharon shook her head, brow creased in concern. "No, honey. I was just hoping that it might open your eyes to other possibilities. Look at the amazing results you're getting with Sam. What if you are instrumental—pardon the pun—in helping him wake up? That's huge, Azlin. What if you could use your talent to help others the way you're helping him?"

"Look, I'm not going to go around like some freaking troubadour and start performing at nursing homes and hospitals. I don't know why Sam responds to my music, but it seems to me there's a lot of whys with Sam. I mean, for God's sake, no one even knows why he's in the stupid coma in the first place!"

Sharon, always composed, raised her hands in a pacifying gesture. "All I'm saying is give it some thought. This is a whole new area you've probably never explored. It's a way to use your talent to help others, maybe even to ease their suffering—a way to use it for something other than frivolous entertainment."

Azlin rolled her eyes. "I'm not Mother Teresa."

Sharon gave her a stern look. "No. But, then, who are you?" She waved her hand in a wide sweep, indicating the small room. "This isn't you, Azlin. You've got so much more to offer. You've got so much potential."

Azlin's whole body seem to harden. "Yeah, Sharon. I've heard that before. Oh, yeah. That's what my parents said the night they _died," _she said with bitterness.

Sharon opened her mouth, poised to say more.

Azlin cut her off. "Just go."

Sharon stood and rested a hand on Azlin's shoulder. "Azlin—"

"Go!" Azlin glowered at the well-meaning woman, not caring if Sharon was there out of concern for her. Voice low and measured, she said, "You're paid to run this hospital, not my life."

Sharon stiffened, exhaled an angry sigh, and then left the room, shutting the door behind her with a little more force than was necessary.

**SWDWSWDW**

Lucifer. Free-falling. The last real memory Sam had was doing a swan dive to hell and taking the devil with him.

The first cognizant thought he'd had was that he was in some kind of hell of his own making, the same way heaven had been a construct of the things that made each individual person happy. To his horror, he was trapped, his body feeling as if it were encased in heavy, impenetrable lead—his entire body, even his eyelids. None of his muscles worked. There was so much darkness and so much silence. He tried to fight his way out of it, but he was stuck there, imprisoned.

Sometimes, though, he heard the music, and he would desperately follow it, and it would lead him closer to the surface. At first, he could only hear the music, but the closer he got, he could hear voices—Dean's and Bobby's and others he didn't recognize. And then he would doubt that he was in hell because the music and Dean's voice and Bobby's voice, they were good things, and he didn't think there would be any kind of goodness or pleasure or hope in hell.

He'd almost made it to the surface several times, but then he'd feel a throbbing, searing pain in his head, and he'd grow so weak that he couldn't hold on anymore. And once again, the darkness and silence would claim him. No, he didn't think he was in hell anymore—just an appalling, terrifying nightmare that he couldn't wake from.

_**TBC**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Just a reminder that I have no medical training, so I hope my medical bs doesn't ruin the story for you medical professionals out there. I did as much research as I could and tried to make it as realistic as possible. I also don't know how to play guitar, so please forgive my mistakes in that area. **__**I posted this after only three hours of sleep, so I'm sure I missed some mistakes when I proofed it. Sorry! **_

**Chapter 7**

Three and a half weeks into the pneumonia, Sam's lungs had cleared enough that they had taken him off the ventilator and he'd only needed a nose cannula for oxygen, mainly just as a precaution. Two days after that, his fever had finally broken, his sweat-soaked hair and sheets a sight for sore eyes. The relief had almost brought Dean to his knees.

Once the fever had broken and Sam seemed to be out of the woods as far as the pneumonia went, a reluctant Bobby had finally had to leave. Things seemed to be heating up in the fugly world, and he was once again needed to help out.

Dean felt guilty about not going with Bobby, but he just couldn't bring himself to leave Sam. Dean was addicted to the therapy sessions. Sam was improving, having longer periods of reaction time to outside stimuli. Dean felt like every time Sam responded to him could be _the _time, the time that Sam would finally make it back to the land of the living. It was like Dean was a gambler in Vegas, and the next roll of the dice was going to be the winner—the next roll would be when his luck would change for the better.

Azlin had kept up her end of the deal, never complaining about all the time and energy they were asking of her. She didn't really seem to care who was in the room with her anymore or who was listening, playing whatever struck her fancy or even making up songs right there on the spot. It was like she was in her own private studio.

In the evening sessions, Chad—his hair a different color every day—usually came an hour before his shift began, never missing a chance to work with Azlin. He had been the perfect student for her, obviously in awe of her, hanging on her every word. Normally never serious and kind of a smart-ass, during those times he was earnest and attentive.

Azlin calmly and patiently, almost as afterthoughts, doled out bits of technique or tips in a very unassuming, modest manner. Chad seemed to take everything, no matter how small, to heart, and even Dean could tell his playing had improved.

More often than not, whenever Chad was in the room, their playing evolved into full-on jam sessions. Azlin had taught him some of the songs she had written, and they experimented with how to play them and with possible lyrics, both of them having decent voices. They covered a lot of songs, too, although nothing Dean ever recognized.

They were now in Sam's room in the middle of one of these sessions and had kept playing well beyond getting any responses from Sam, clearly in it just for the love of what they were doing. In addition to their acoustic guitars, they had been bringing in an electric guitar and an electric bass and small combo amps to hook them in to, turning them down low so they wouldn't disturb the rest of the hospital.

Dean was standing in his usual place on the other side of Sam's bed, his brother a silent barrier between them, and Azlin and Chad were sitting in the chairs by Sam's bed. Sam's color was much better, the sickly pallor of the pneumonia gone. He was on his back, lying almost flat, and the nose cannula had been removed earlier that morning. The only wires left hooked up to him were the pulse ox clip on the index finger of his right hand that transmitted heart rate and oxygen saturation and the EEG sensors on his forehead. The IVs were gone too, and any medication that needed to administered was, once again, administered through Sam's feeding tube.

"Let's do _Lazy Eye," _said Chad.

Azlin looked up from the guitar she had been idly picking at. "Okay. But I play the bass line."

Chad held out the bass he was holding so they could switch instruments. "You drive a hard bargain, since that is one of the greatest bass lines ever, but I'll agree to it only because I actually know the lead on this one, too."

Azin smiled a little, shallow dimples showing. "You want the vocals?"

"Sure."

"I'm gonna pace it like the Carnavas version. EP version is too slow." Without waiting for an acknowledgment from Chad, she began a ethereal, pulsing bass line that was almost addictive.

Dean found himself getting into it, even though it was unlike anything he had in his own beloved cassette collection. He was starting think, for the first time, that maybe he should branch out a bit and wondered if _Lazy Eye_ came on cassette. Probably not.

The song came full circle and ended almost the same way it had begun. As they played the last strains, Chad grinned and held Azlin's eyes for a moment. "I love that fucking song," he announced.

Azlin returned the smile. The synergy she and Chad had both felt singing and playing the song was obvious. She looked down at her bass. "What do you want to play next?"

"How about some Stone Roses?" suggested Chad.

She raised her dark head and quirked her right eyebrow, the one with the tiny ring. "Wow, were you even born when that came out?"

Chad gave her a _ha-ha-funny _look. "I'm not that young, and you're not that old."

She snorted. "How old are you, like, 24?"

Chad fiddled with the strings of his guitar. "How old are _you, _like, 50?" he countered.

She smiled to herself, showing her dimples, and then shot a look at Dean, her eyes sparkling.

Dean grinned in return. He was always surprised at how much her aloof demeanor changed whenever she was in guitar mode. She could be downright charming.

"Not quite that old," she said, "but old enough to have changed your diapers_."_

Chad rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Whatever. Can we get on with the show?"

"Okay," she said. "Which song?"

"I only know _She Bangs the Drums."_

"Okay. You want bass or lead?"

Chad rolled his eyes again. "Jeez, Azlin. Is there any part of any song on the whole fucking planet that you can't play?"

Azlin looked down at the bass again, and her reply was a little muffled. "If I've heard it once, I can play it."

Dean raised his eyebrows in amazement.

Chad looked skeptical. "That's impossible."

She just shrugged. "I usually remember the words, too."

Chad scrunched his face in thought and then challenged, "Okay. Love Tractor, _Highland Sweetheart._"

Azlin gave an amused huff, brows quirked. "You're really reaching there."

Chad looked a little cocky. "I know my music, dude."

Dean, of course, didn't know what the hell they were talking about, since he never recognized any of the songs they played, but apparently Azlin did. She traded guitars with Chad again and immediately started playing the requested instrumental song.

Chad's mouth hung open. About half way into the song, Chad held up a hand, indicating for her to stop. "Okay, Miss Fancy Pants. Let's try one with words. Chainsaw Kittens, _Feel Like a Drug Store."_

"Is that supposed to be obscure?" she taunted.

Chad grew irritated. "Quit stalling and start playing it, if you know it."

"Do _you_ know it?" she retorted.

"Just play it."

She did, and sang the words, too.

Chad gave Dean a _you-try-to-stump-her_ look.

Dean thought for a moment and then said, "Molly Hatchet, _Dreams I'll Never See._"

She made a face. "I don't listen to that kind of music."

Dean shrugged, unsympathetic. "Have you ever heard it? You said if you've heard it, you can play it. It's not _that_ obscure." He couldn't resist giving her a slightly devilish smile.

She puffed out an annoyed breath. "Yeah. My uncle was in to Southern rock. I probably heard it, like, when I was _four_."

"If you've heard it, you can play it," mocked Chad.

She sighed, hesitating for a moment, and seemed to be at a loss. Pensive, she absently touched the tip of her tongue to the back of her top teeth, showing her piercing. Dean had almost forgotten that she had it. It didn't affect the way she talked like it did some people with pierced tongues—she didn't sound like her tongue had been stung by a mutant bumble bee.

Chad got a satisfied smile on his face.

Dean raised his brows. _Well?_ he challenged silently.

She suddenly smiled wickedly, dimples working, implying she had known it all along and had been toying with them. She started to play the opening chords of the song perfectly and then began singing the words.

"_/Just one more morning, I had to wake up with the blues/  
>Pulled myself out of bed, yeah, put on my walking shoes/  
>Climbed up on a hilltop baby, to see what I could see, yeah/  
>The whole world's falling down babe, right down in front of me/  
>'Cause I've been hung up on all them dreams/__/I'm never gonna see, yeah/  
>Lord help me babe, dreams get the best of me, yeah/"_

Azlin's voice, the music, and the words of the song hit home. How many times had Dean seen the world almost literally fall apart and his dreams of Lisa and Ben right along with it?

She finished the final notes of the song and looked at Dean and Chad, a cocky expression on her face that said, _Next?_

Shaking his bout of melancholy, Dean grinned, conceding the battle.

Chad looked peaked, like he might go into shock. "Perfect recall," he said numbly. "Holy shit."

Azlin was laughing when her eyes strayed over to Sam, and she instantly went pale, laughter abruptly gone.

Dean followed her gaze and almost had a heart attack, his knees going weak.

_Son of a bitch_. Sam's eyes were open.

**SWDWSWDW**

The throbbing, searing pain in Sam's head had steadily, gradually eased, and he'd been close to opening his eyes several times. None of his muscles worked, but he'd thought if he focused his will and energy on one thing, he might finally be able to break through. So he'd concentrated on opening his eyes. It was like they had been sealed shut with epoxy, but he was dogged and determined.

When he finally got them open, all he could see was bright, white-hot light that felt like thousands of tiny needles were stabbing his brain. If his vocal cords had been working, he would have cried out in agony. He reflexively shut his eyes but forced them back open immediately despite the pain, afraid if he let them close again he would lose control and fall back into the darkness.

The pain was excruciating, but he could hear the music nearby, and he tried to concentrate on that. He was forced to blink, but, to his immense relief, he was able to get his eyes open again.

The music had stopped, and he could hear voices somewhere in the background. He wanted the music to start again because his thoughts were so confused and it helped him focus, and, without it, it was hard to escape the needles still penetrating through his eyes.

Suddenly, there was a change in the light, and he could see something like a shadow cross his vision.

Sam!" someone yelled.

Was it Dean? It sounded like him, and Sam tried to force himself to concentrate on the voice.

"Sam!" It _was_ Dean.

_Oh, thank God, _thought Sam_._ His throat felt thick and dry, and he felt tears roll down his cheeks from sheer relief and elation that he'd finally made it to the surface. Someone shook his shoulders.

"Sammy!" Dean again.

He felt rough hands on either side of his face, and the shadow seemed to get very close. "Sammy, it's Dean. I'm here, man. You're gonna be okay."

Sam tentatively risked blinking his eyes several times, trying to clear his vision, trying to make out something besides light and shadow, trying to stop hurting.

"Someone turn off the lights! It's too bright for his eyes." Dean's voice was rough with authority and emotion, and Sam wondered why, but his mind was too distracted by the needles driving into his head to really think on it.

The light dimmed and the needles abated a bit, although Sam still had to fight against the pain. Finally, though, he began to see the outline of Dean's head and then his face. It was all very blurry, but it was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

Suddenly, Sam felt himself lifted a little, strong arms enfolding him, his head supported by a hand, his chin resting on someone's shoulder. The familiar scent of his brother seemed to surround him. Dean was hugging him. It was an odd thing for Dean to do, but it felt so comforting, so good.

He wished so desperately that he could return the embrace, let Dean know without words how utterly relieved he was that Dean was there, that he wasn't in hell after all, that he was safe now, that Dean would have his back. He wanted to convey all of that, but, dammit, nothing worked. His arms, his head, his whole body felt heavy, like each body part weighed a thousand tons.

He felt himself being lowered gently, his brother's arms easing away from him. Then there was a strong, almost crushing squeeze of his hand, and Dean's blurry form still hovered over him. He thought Dean might still be talking to him, but things were beginning to get foggy, and Sam couldn't make out what Dean was saying.

He heard several voices nearby but couldn't muster enough curiosity to try to figure out what was going on. His eyelids were growing heavy, and although he fought with all his might, he couldn't stop them from closing. He felt himself slipping away, no longer able to keep the darkness at bay.

**SWDWSWDW**

As Sam's eyes sagged closed, Dean began trembling uncontrollably. He was aware that Francine and another nurse had come into the room, but he couldn't move. He had a death grip on Sam's hand and a vague notion that he should let go so the nurses could do their job, but he couldn't make himself do it.

Sam had finally opened his eyes, and Dean was sure his little brother had been aware of his presence. Sam's facial expression hadn't changed, but his tears—Dean was sure they weren't just a reaction to the light. It was the moment he had been waiting for all these months, and now that it had finally happened, Dean was completely and totally shell-shocked.

He heard voices. Maybe they were talking to him, but he couldn't register what they were saying.

He felt a hand rest firmly on top of his arm and turned in a daze to see Azlin looking up at him.

"Dean, it's okay," she said, her blue eyes radiating compassion. She seemed so strong, so confident, like she knew what should happen next.

Before he realized what was happening, he had let go of Sam's hand, and she was leading him over near the door. He was still shaking, and she pulled him into a tight, comforting embrace.

The simple human contact was all it took to undo almost seven months of keeping a leash on his emotions, and he began to sob—silent, gut-wrenching sobs of relief. Seven months. Sam had been in a coma for nearly seven months, and every day of that time Dean had hoped for and needed for Sam to wake up with every fiber of his being. Now that it had finally happened, he was on the verge of shattering into a million pieces, and the only thing stopping him from doing that was this strange girl physically holding him together in her arms.

"Shh," she comforted. "It's okay. It's okay." She kept him firmly in her embrace, idly rubbing his back, keeping up a steady stream of comforting words.

After several minutes, his gasping sobs had finally stopped, and Dean awkwardly pulled away from Azlin. Embarrassed and angry that he had lost control, he looked toward Sam and scrubbed his hands over his face, surreptitiously wiping away the moisture from it.

Francine came over to him, a tentative smile on her face, and rubbed his arm in a maternal gesture. "Hey, sugar. Dr. Davis is on his way."

Dean inhaled deeply and blew it out, nodding, still not finding any words.

Francine squeezed his arm, silently letting him know she was there if he needed anything.

Chad came over and clapped Dean on the back, a huge, crooked grin on his face, eyes wide. "Dude, what...the fuck?"

The question was pure Chad, and it made Dean release a nervous laugh, breaking the tension in the room.

Azlin stood there like a statue for a moment and said nothing more, her trademark detachment slipping back into place. With finality, she moved over by the side of Sam's bed and started packing up her guitars.

**SWDWSWDW**

Once Sam had finally broken through to the surface, he was able to open his eyes at will. The only problem was that he couldn't keep them open for very long. When he did open them, though, his eye sight was a little clearer each time, although he still had problems seeing things farther away from him and was still sensitive to light.

He knew that he had been awake more than once but had no sense of time, although, with each incident, he did become slightly more aware of his surroundings. Dean was almost always there in his line of vision, and sometimes there were others.

Bobby had been there, and Sam had wanted to respond to his grizzled old friend so badly, but the only thing Sam had managed had been tears escaping the corners of his eyes.

Bobby had hugged him and said, voice heavy with emotion, "Welcome back, son."

The last Sam remembered, he had watched and—oh, God—_felt_, Bobby's neck snap when Lucifer had been controlling Sam's body. The stark horror of that moment, watching the man who had been like a father to him killed so brutally and senselessly, made Sam want to erase it from memory, but it was etched into his brain. The nightmare of it was overpowering. He knew there were questions he should be asking, but before he'd been able to get his muddled thoughts organized, the drain of such strong emotion had pulled him back into oblivion.

The next time he woke, Castiel's bland, emotionless features were staring at him, and if Dean was there, he didn't make his presence known.

Castiel canted his head to one side, still just staring.

Sam blinked several times, thinking that maybe he was hallucinating or dreaming because he knew he'd seen Castiel spontaneously dispersed into a million pieces with the snap of a finger. But then Castiel placed two fingers on Sam's forehead, and Sam knew by the touch that Cas was real.

Castiel removed his fingers and said, "I am sorry, Sam. I was wrong about you. Things will not be easy for you, and it is my fault."

Sam frowned, wanting to ask what Castiel meant and trying to find a way to make his voice work, but Cas again put his fingers on Sam's forehead, and Sam fell instantly back to sleep.

This time, when Sam groggily opened his eyes, a woman with big blond hair was smiling down at him.

"Hello, sugar," she twanged. "I'm Francine. We've met before, but you were pretty out of it, so if you don't remember, you won't hurt my feelings." She looked over at a point just beyond the foot of Sam's bed. "Sorry if I woke you up. I just came in here to check on you, and I dropped my soda pop bottle and made a mess."

Sam tried to adjust to the light and squinted at her, trying to remember when he might have seen her before. She did look vaguely familiar. He wondered where Dean was and tried to scan the room with his eyes. He saw a very blurry figure near the door pushing something large and yellow. He didn't think it could be Dean because whoever it was didn't seem tall enough. He was lying only slightly inclined and wished he could sit up more to get a better view, but he couldn't lift his hand to push the bed controls. _Bed controls? _Was he in a hospital? Why couldn't he move? Fingers of fear began to niggle at him, and he looked around for Dean again and tried to sift through the myriad of fuzzy thoughts in his brain.

Francine patted his arm. "You looking for your brother, hon? Don't worry. He's just gone to get some shut-eye. He and your Uncle Bobby have been here almost round the clock since you woke up. I threatened them within an inch of their lives if they didn't go get some rest in a real bed." She smiled a maternal smile and brushed her fingers lightly through his hair.

It was soothing, and Sam closed his eyes for a moment, calmed by the feel of the simple gesture.

"Sorry, Azlin, honey. I know you're trying to wrap things up."

Sam opened his eyes when he heard the name. _Azlin_. It was an unusual name. Did it mean something to him?

"It's fine, Francine. That's my job."

That silky voice, it was familiar. Sam looked toward the blurry blob that the voice had come from and blinked several times, trying to get his traitorous eyes to focus. Finally, he was able to make out dark short hair and the shape of a girl, although he couldn't see her features very clearly. She was bent over, moving her arms back and forth, and he realized she was probably mopping, cleaning up Francine's mess.

Francine distracted him. "It's almost two in the morning, sugar. You're quite the night owl, always waking when it's the wee hours of the night. No wonder your brother and uncle are exhausted. They haven't wanted to miss a minute with you, but a body can only exist on coffee and adrenaline for so long." She winked. "Don't you worry none, though. They'll be back in the mornin'."

Sam frowned, wanting to know more but unable to find the words.

"Of course, I suspect your sleep patterns are really gonna be off kilter for a while, hon, since you were comatose for so long. We'll have to try to wake you more during the day."

_Comatose_? What was she talking about? Sam felt panicky for a moment and shut his eyes to escape the chattering nurse. He couldn't think clearly, and he needed desperately to get his sluggish mind to cooperate. He'd been in a coma? For how long? What had happened to him? What was wrong with him? He fervently wished Dean and Bobby were there to tell him what was going on and that he could get his damn mouth to work so he could ask questions. He tried working his throat.

"Azlin, hon, I think he's trying to swallow. Would you mind running and getting a cup of ice chips?"

There was no response, so he opened his eyes to see what was going on. The girl must have gone to get the cup because she was suddenly gone, although the large object she'd pushed in the door was still near the end of his bed. He tried to think through who this Azlin person might be, but his thoughts were too disjointed.

The nurse started chattering again, but he couldn't follow what she was saying. The fog was starting to roll in, and he was having to fight the closing of his eyelids. He must have dozed for a second, because the next thing he knew, the head of his bed was being raised and he was being nudged awake.

"Sam," prodded Francine, "let's try some ice chips, sugar. I'm just going to give you a teensy bit at first to see how you do." Gently, she slid a small spoonful of the ice into Sam's mouth.

He hadn't realized how dry his mouth and throat were, and the tiny amount of cold ice was pure nirvana—until he tried to swallow. He clenched his eyes shut and tried with every fiber of his being, but nothing happened. To his horror, he felt the now-melted water run out of the corner of his mouth. _Oh, my God. I can't even fucking swallow. _For the first time, the impact of what this meant really sunk into his confused brain, and his heart began to hammer in his chest. _He couldn't move _any_ part of his body!_

Francine hovered over him and wiped the trickle of water from his face as if it were no big deal.

Sam frantically wondered how he could make her understand how frightening and dire his situation was. Something was really, really wrong with him.

She squeezed his hand. "It's okay, Sam. That was good. Don't get yourself in a dither."

A _dither_? He was in full-on, oh-my-God-I-started-the-Apocalypse, scared-shitless mode. Fear was spreading through his veins like wildfire, and his pulse was pounding.

Francine glanced away from him for a second. "Oh, my stars. His heart rate's really gettin' up there." She cupped Sam's face gently but firmly in her hands and bent toward him, forcing him to look her square in the eye. "Now, you listen to me, Sam. You're fine. I know it's scary, but you've been in a coma for several months, honey. Your muscles are out of commission because they haven't been used in a while, and that includes your gullet. Do you hear me? _You're gonna be okay_," she stressed.

As much as he tried, though, he couldn't calm down. The harder he tried, the more he panicked. His chest was beginning to feel tight, and his breaths were coming in rapid pants.

"Lord have mercy, Azlin. He's having a full-blown anxiety attack. Come here and hold his hand and try to soothe him while I go draw up a sedative."

"But—"

"You get over here now, girl." Francine's tone brooked no argument.

He closed his eyes for a second to try to concentrate on breathing, and when he opened them again, the dark-haired girl was in his line of vision.

She clasped his lifeless hand and squeezed firmly.

At least he could _feel. _Her hand was warm and comforting, a lifeline.

She gazed at him with intense, vivid blue eyes. "Hi, Sam. I'm Azlin. You're going to be _okay_," she promised.

He closed his eyes again, trying to fight the stubborn, insistent fear and get control of himself, but he couldn't. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and he was gasping for air.

She squeezed his hand even tighter, trying to reassure. "Sam, please. Look at me." She placed a soft hand on his cheek.

He opened his eyes and saw again those startling blue eyes.

"I know what you're feeling. You're not alone, okay? I've been where you are, and it's not fun, but it's not that uncommon. You're gonna be okay. It's just a panic attack. Francine'll be back soon with something that will help you."

As if Azlin had conjured her, Francine appeared suddenly on the other side of Sam's bed. "Sugar, you're gonna feel a little stick, and then you should start to feel more relaxed within a few minutes."

He felt the prick of a needle in the upper part of his right arm but didn't even blink, keeping his gaze fixed on Azlin's eyes. True to Francine's word, he soon felt a warm, calming surge of liquid salvation move down his arm and quickly spread to the rest of his body. His breathing began to slow, and his eyelids began to feel leaden.

Francine was patting his free hand—the one Azlin wasn't holding—and rubbing it intermittently in a soothing motion and murmuring soft words of comfort.

Sam was only vaguely aware of Francine, though. His eyes were only half open now, but they were still locked onto Azlin's ocean-like gaze, not wanting to let it go. _Her eyes are so beautiful_, he thought hazily. He wanted to lose himself in them, escape into them.

He had thought when he finally broke through to the surface he would be free, but, instead, he had been propelled from one horrifying nightmare into another. He was sad when the vast, sky-blue ocean slipped away, and he was once again plunged into darkness.

**SWDWSWDW**

Dark-green/bluish/hazel. That was the color of Sam's eyes. They were the kind of eyes that changed color with moods or lighting, the kind of eyes that were often mistaken for some color that they really were not.

Azlin hated the panic she saw in Sam's eyes, knowing how scared he was because she'd had panic attacks before and knew they were utterly terrifying. Until recently, it was the feeling she had gotten when she'd tried to play her guitar, or the feeling she still got sometimes after one of her particularly ghastly nightmares.

She held onto Sam's hand for a long time, trying to help calm him but knowing it was futile, knowing how hard it was to stop a panic attack once it was started. Finally, Francine gave him a shot of some sedative, and then Azlin watched his tense features go from abject terror to a more relaxed visage, eyes drooping to only half open. Even then, he hadn't taken his soulful eyes off of her, not until his slow blinks had halted altogether and his lids finally remained closed.

Still, she held his hand for a while, until she was absolutely certain he was asleep, the lines of his forehead smooth. She reluctantly let go of his hand and placed it gently on top of his stomach and lingered by his side, unable for some reason she couldn't fathom to fully leave him.

Things had pretty much gone back to normal for Azlin. After Sam had first opened his eyes nearly a week ago, he had come to for brief moments on his own and responded when others tried to wake him, especially Dean and their Uncle Bobby. Still, he hadn't really seemed to be aware of what was going on, at least from what Azlin had gleaned from hearsay and a little eavesdropping.

She hadn't been in Sam's room to play her guitar since Sam had awakened. Dr. Davis had wanted to see how well they could get through to Sam without the music, and since Sam seemed to be responding, no one had asked her to come in and play for him again. If she were honest with herself, she actually missed the banter with Dean and Chad and missed seeing Sam.

Sort of in a daze, she reached out and smoothed the brown hair near Sam's forehead and then let her fingertips trace a trail from his smooth brow, past the corner of his eye, over his broad cheekbone, and down to his lips. She felt a strange flutter in the pit of her stomach and wanted to touch her mouth to those lips so badly she burned with it.

"I think he's fine, now, sugar."

Azlin flinched, jolted abruptly from whatever spell had possessed her. She felt her neck and ears grow instantly warm, embarrassed that she had been thinking about kissing Sam, and, even worse, that she had completely forgotten Francine's presence in the room. It was bad enough that Francine had seen her touch his face, but what if Azlin had actually kissed him in front of her? Azlin had been a millisecond away from doing just that.

God, why did Sam have such a bewitching effect on her? She didn't even know him. _I'm losing my fucking mind._ If being with Sam affected her this way when the man was asleep, what kind of blithering idiot would she turn into if he was actually awake and talking? One thing was for sure, she didn't want to find out. She'd done her good deed—brought the guy out of a coma, for Christ's sake—and she was done.

A quizzical look flashed across Francine's face, but she pretended she hadn't noticed Azlin's show of affection. Changing gears, she glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's past quittin' time, hon. Sorry I got you involved in all this." She raised a hand in the Scout's-honor sign and ducked her head in mock shame. "I've learned my lesson. No drinkin' on the job. Them soda pops ain't nothing but trouble."

_God, you could say that again. _Azlin made her way over to her cart and began pushing it hastily toward the door, not knowing what to say. She didn't glance back at Francine or the young man now sleeping peacefully on the bed. She just wanted to go and crash on her sofa and forget about Sam Blackmore. She was physically attracted to him—that's all it could be—and her hormones were out of sync or something. It _had_ been a really long time since she'd been with a guy.

Why she couldn't be attracted to Dean instead, she didn't know. He seemed like a no-strings-attached kind of guy, was good-looking, and, even better, could walk and talk and hadn't been in a coma, for, oh, the last seven months. It probably wouldn't be that hard to get him into bed, either.

But, no. Her horny, traitorous hormones had homed in on Sam like he was the last man on earth. Now that she was no longer needed, her only option was to stay as far away from him as she could and stay as detached as possible. She would never allow herself to care for _any_ guy ever again, even one with gorgeous, wounded-puppy, dark-green/bluish/hazel eyes—or whatever fucking color they actually were.

_**TBC**_

**_A/N: The song names in this chapter are in italics, and the band names are just first-letter capped. The song _Lazy Eye _is by Silversun Pickups, from their album Carnavas. _**

**_Please let me know how you like it and if there's something I can improve on (which I'm sure there is). Reviews make me very, very, very, very happy. They're what keeps this story going, so thanks to all who have reviewed and favorited so far. You rock!_**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Dean and Bobby made it back to the rehab center early, around six-thirty, and were finishing up sausage-and-egg biscuits and coffee. They'd gotten them for breakfast from the local Braum's on their way to the small hospital and were sitting in their usual chairs next to Sam's bed, sharing the overbed table they'd pulled over to them.

Bobby, like a ping-pong ball, had come back from the hunt again when he'd heard that Sam had opened his eyes. "I knew that was gonna happen," he'd said dryly on the phone when an elated Dean had called him with the news. "Kinda like it only rains after you've washed the car."

Despite his grousing, he'd hightailed it back to Dumas as fast as he could, and the look on his face when Sam had opened his eyes and recognized him—judging by the tears spilling from Sam's eyes—had brought tears to the roughened old hunter's eyes in return. The chick-flick quotient had been so high Dean had been afraid his boots were going to get wet—not that he could really be talking.

Sam was now positioned on his stomach and seemed to have survived the night without Dean and Bobby by his side.

Dean was relieved. Although Sam did little more than open his eyes when he woke, Dean had felt guilty about leaving him, afraid Sam would wake up and be afraid or confused. So far, Dean or Bobby had always been there for him, but the vigil they had kept for the past six days had worn them out. Dean had to admit, getting a full night's sleep had its merits, and he felt more like himself.

As Dean took the last bite of his breakfast, Dr. Davis and his ever-trusty assistant Linda entered the room. Dean quickly stood and started clearing the table of his and Bobby's breakfast remnants so the two medics would have room to work.

Bobby was in the middle of sipping his coffee and swallowed before saying, "Mornin', Doc. You're a little early." Then he stood and shook the doctor's hand.

Dr. Davis, returning the shake, smiled and nodded at both men. "Good morning, Bobby. Dean." The doctor headed over to Sam's bed, already flipping through patient notes that weren't a part of Sam's chart, yet.

Bobby and Dean stepped back out of the way.

The stocky doctor's brow creased. "Seems Sam woke up last night and had to be sedated."

The last bite of biscuit Dean had swallowed suddenly felt like a rock sitting in his stomach, and he looked guiltily at his little brother.

"According to Francine's notes," Dr. Davis continued, "he woke up and seemed to be more cognizant of what was going on and was trying to swallow, so she gave him a spoonful of ice chips. He was unable to swallow and panicked. She tried to reassure him, but nothing she said seemed to help. She gave him a shot of diazepam to help calm him and lower his heart rate."

"Dammit," Dean growled. His worst fear had come to fruition.

Bobby grabbed Dean's shoulder gently but firmly. "Dean, it's not your fault. He was bound to wake by himself sooner or later, son. You can't be here every second of the day."

Dean shook his head and rubbed his fingers across his lips. "I should have been here, Bobby. Maybe he wouldn't have gotten so worked up if I'd been here. I hate it that Francine had to give him a sedative." A sudden bolt of fear shot through him. "What if he can't wake up again, Bobby?"

Dr. Davis shook his head. "No, no, Dean. Don't worry about that. The dose Francine gave him was pretty mild, and a sedative wouldn't cause Sam to relapse, anyway. She had to do it. She notes Sam was having difficulty breathing."

Dean's jaw tightened. "Why didn't she call me?"

Dr. Davis sighed and gave him a stern look. "Dean, I understand your concern, but Francine did the right thing. Once the sedative took effect, she knew that Sam would be out for a while. There was no sense in calling you in. You would have just been sitting here watching him sleep instead of getting the sleep _you _quite obviously needed."

Dean shook his head. "Son of a bitch! I knew I shouldn't have left him. I trusted them to call me!"

Bobby cuffed Dean on the back of the head. "Did you hear a thing the doc said, you idjit? There was nothing you could have done for Sam, and it don't take a moron to figure out that you were in dire need of some rest. Francine was looking out for Sam _and_ you."

None of that mattered to Dean. His heart heavy with guilt, he looked Bobby in the eye. "I should have been here, Bobby. He wouldn't have panicked if I had been here. He would have known I had his back."

Bobby shook his head, frustrated. "It ain't got nothing to do with that, Dean! He panicked because he couldn't swallow, couldn't _move_. I know firsthand how scary that can be, and it was only my legs that wouldn't work. I can't imagine the horror of waking up and realizing that you can't move _any_ part of your body. He would have panicked whether you'd been here or not!"

Dr. Davis held up his hand, interrupting the argument. "Dean, why don't you try to rouse Sam right now, and we'll just see how he's doing?"

Dean swallowed thickly, trying to digest Bobby's words, but the reason Sam had panicked didn't matter. He should have been there. He looked toward Sam and then nodded.

"Linda, let's get Sam turned over on his back," prompted Dr. Davis.

Dean watched the two of them work quickly and efficiently to turn Sam's lanky frame over. Then, Linda pressed a button on the bed and it began to rise into more of a sitting position.

Sam stirred a little bit from all the activity, but didn't open his eyes.

Dr. Davis gestured to Dean that they were ready for him to try to wake Sam.

Dean moved over to the side of Sam's bed and squeezed his wrist. "Sam? Hey, Sammy, it's Dean. Can you wake up for me?"

Sam's eyes began to roll beneath his lids.

Dean felt a rush of relief that Sam responded to his voice almost instantly, and he felt some of the tension in his body uncoil. "That's it, Sam. Let's see those peepers, dude."

Slowly, after several bouts of groggy blinking, Sam opened his eyes and squinted a bit as if he were trying to focus them and adjust to the light. His features settled into a typical Sam expression, brows furrowed.

Dean laughed, almost drunk with relief and sheer happiness at finally seeing _Sam_ for the first time in seven months. The times when Sam had woken before, he'd been too out of it really to do anything but simply open his eyes. Dean wasn't complaining; that had been monumental. But, now, for the first time, he knew Sam was at least more aware of his surroundings. That trademark Sam look said it all.

Sam blinked and seemed to be searching with his eyes, and Dean didn't need to hear him speak to know that his little brother was already trying to figure out what was what.

Not wanting Sam to freak out, Dean laid a hand gently on his chest. "Easy, Sam. I'm here and so is Bobby. You're in a hospital." Dean motioned for Bobby to join him at the side of Sam's bed.

Bobby sidled up next to Dean and squeezed Sam's hand. "Good morning, kiddo. Welcome back to paradise."

Sam blinked his eyes owlishly and actually gave a weak smirk.

Dean and Bobby eyed each other with stupid grins on their faces, almost giddy from Sam's simple reaction to Bobby's lame joke.

Dr. Davis stepped up to the other side of Sam's bed. "I think perhaps we should try explaining to Sam what's going on, " he prompted.

Dean nodded. "Sam, this is Dr. Davis. He's the main doctor on your case. I'm going to let him explain everything to you, but I'm not going anywhere. Bobby and I will be right here." He gave Sam's chest a final, reassuring pat.

Sam's head was slanted toward Dean. His brow creased, and he strained his eyes to the side to look as far toward Dr. Davis as he could.

Dean's heart sank, realizing Sam couldn't even turn his head in order to see Dr. Davis better. Trying to be nonchalant, Dean began fluffing Sam's pillow. "Let's fix this pillow where you'll be more comfortable, bro." In the guise of adjusting the pillow, Dean lifted Sam's head and turned it so that he would be better able to see the doctor.

Sam's eyes shut for a moment, and his jaw tightened in humiliation.

So much for being subtle. Dean shared a silent look with Bobby.

Dr. Davis cleared his throat, a reassuring look on his face, and patted Sam's hand. "Hi, Sam. It's so good to finally meet you. As Dean said, I'm Dr. Davis, and this is Linda, one of the early-shift nurses. She usually accompanies me on my morning rounds."

Sam's eyes flitted to Linda and then focused intently on the doctor.

"Let me explain to you a little bit of what has happened to you. I may ask you questions from time to time, and I want you to blink your eyes twice to answer yes and once to answer no. Is that all right with you?"

Sam's dark lashes fluttered as he blinked twice.

Dr. Davis smiled and nodded in satisfaction. "Good, Sam." He quickly jotted some notes down in Sam's chart. "All right. As I think you learned last night, you've been in a coma for quite a while—seven months, to be exact."

Sam frowned in alarm, and Dean squeezed his wrist again to reassure him.

Dr. Davis took on a professional, authoritative tone. "It's okay, Sam. As frightening as that sounds, it's behind you. You're _awake._" He let the last word sink in a moment before going on. "It is rare for someone to be in a coma that long and come out of it at all, so you're very, very lucky. Try not to dwell on it. The road ahead of you is what you have to concentrate on now."

Sam glanced sideways with his eyes to Bobby and then Dean, anxiety and confusion a mixture on his face.

Dean could imagine the questions blooming in his brother's mind, questions that the good doctor wouldn't have a clue how to answer. "I know you have a lot of questions, man. Just listen to the doc. Hopefully, he'll answer a lot of them." He gave Sam a look that said, _I'll try to fill in the rest of the blanks later._

Sam's eyes lingered on Dean for a second longer, and then he turned them back to Dr. Davis.

Dr. Davis began to explain. "For seven months, Sam, the only muscles in your body that have been actively moving are the involuntary ones controlled by the autonomic nervous system, things like breathing, your heart beating, your digestive system, the things that automatically function. While we did our best to stimulate your voluntary muscles passively, I'm afraid there's still extensive muscle atrophy and possibly some bone loss and joint damage, although we've been diligent in preventing contractures and you don't have any visible signs of joint stiffening."

Sam's eyes closed, and his brow furrowed deeply in distress.

Dr. Davis glanced at the heart-rate monitor and saw that Sam's heart rate was rising. The doctor placed a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "I won't lie to you. It's going to be a long road ahead to rehabilitate your muscles and get your mobility back, but there's every reason to believe that you will eventually be almost to the point you once were, if not one-hundred percent.

"It's going to be frustrating beyond belief, especially in the beginning, but you're going to be working with some of the best therapists, frankly, in the country." Dr. Davis smiled. "We may seem like country bumpkins here, but you're in a state-of-the-art rehab facility."

Sam's eyes moved quickly to Dean.

Dean could almost hear the question in Sam's mind as if he'd spoken it out loud. "You're in a town called Dumas, Oklahoma. It's a small town in southern Oklahoma," he supplied.

Sam frowned a little, and Dean knew he was wondering why he was in Oklahoma, but his eyes moved back to Dr. Davis.

"Sorry, Sam. I sometimes get ahead of myself. We're blessed to be privately funded by a generous benefactor and have been able to attract top professionals in their fields despite our small size and rather rural location. Dumas is about two hours north of Dallas and a little under two hours south of Oklahoma City, near the Oklahoma/Texas border.

"Now, as I was saying, in the beginning, your therapy will progress in baby steps, and it's probably going to seem like not much is happening. The good news, though, is that you can control how much or how little you do. Much of it will be dependent on you and not a therapist, at least in this very early stage.

"The first thing we need to concentrate on is getting your throat working so you can swallow. You've been on a feeding tube, and your throat muscles have been completely inactive—no swallowing, coughing, talking, or anything—so we've got to remedy that as soon as possible. That's why it was so scary last night for you when you couldn't swallow, but it's perfectly normal. Let me stress, Sam, that there is no evidence you have sustained neurological damage. You are _not_ paralyzed. You are simply suffering from acute muscle atrophy because of disuse, which will, hopefully, be almost, if not fully, reversible."

A look of relief flashed across Sam's features.

The doctor continued. "You need to try working your throat muscles as much as possible, especially when you are just lying here, and you will be given ice chips and cups of water quite frequently throughout the day." He looked at Dean and Bobby. "You two need to offer him water and ice whenever you think about it. The nurses will also do this when they check on Sam, but when I say 'frequent,' I really mean frequent."

Dean and Bobby both nodded.

Dr. Davis went on, looking earnestly at Sam. "Do not be alarmed if it takes a while to get to where you can swallow easily again. Throat muscles are extremely difficult to work passively by a therapist, although, again, we did our best. They are going to be some of the most atrophied muscles of your body, but _you _have control over how much you exercise them and how quickly they will rebound. You are also going to have a speech therapist assigned to your case, and I'm sure your inability to speak has more to do with muscle disuse than as a result of something more traumatic."

Bobby snorted in derision.

The doctor gave him a questioning look.

Bobby held up his hands and waved them in a never-mind gesture.

Dr. Davis frowned briefly, not understanding Bobby's response, and then continued. "I want you to try to speak as much as possible, even if no sound will come out and you can only move your lips. It will probably be very frustrating for you, especially if no one can make out what you're saying, but you have to keep trying. Are you with me so far, Sam?"

Sam hesitated for a moment and closed his eyes. Finally, his lips moved, and he mouthed, "Yes."

Dr. Davis's face lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked at Dean and Bobby for confirmation that they'd seen Sam's response.

Again, both men had shit-eating grins on their faces. That had been even better than the smirk they'd gotten earlier.

Dr. Davis patted Sam's shoulder. "Excellent, Sam. I'm glad we're on the same page.

"You should know that you had to be placed on a ventilator during a serious bout of pneumonia that you have only just recently recovered from, so it is possible that the vent may have affected your vocal cords in addition to atrophy."

Sam's eyes focused on Dean, frowning.

Dean gave him a dry look. "Yeah. It wasn't any normal kind of pneumonia, either, Sam. You had to get the most stubborn kind known to man. Damn near killed you."

"Winchester luck at its finest," quipped Bobby wryly.

Dr. Davis looked perplexed. "'Winchester luck'? What does that mean?"

Again, Bobby gave him the never-mind gesture.

Sam gave a faint, crooked grin.

The doctor's gaze lingered on Bobby, but then he turned back to Sam. "Hopefully, vent damage won't be much of an issue, though. As I said, you're going to have a wonderful speech therapist, and I'm sure you two will be able to work through it."

Sam's eyes were beginning to droop.

Dr. Davis's tone grew stern. "Sam, I need you to stay awake. Okay?"

Sam looked at him myopically, lids heavy.

The doctor bent closer to Sam's face.

Dean almost laughed at the comical expression on Sam's face as he made an effort to refocus his tired eyes on the doctor.

"Sam," said the doctor with authority, "I want you to fight the sleepiness with everything you've got. You've done really well so far this morning, but I want you to try to stay awake for as long as possible every time you wake up. We're going to work on getting longer periods of wakefulness every time. Okay?"

Sam's eyes widened briefly and he blinked several times, fighting the closing of them. "Okay," he mouthed with his lips.

Dr. Davis nodded. "Good, Sam. Now, I'm going to ask you a few questions about your mobility. Are you able to move your head on the pillow? Not necessarily lift it, but move side to side, maybe?"

Sam hesitated a moment and then his forehead wrinkled in obvious distress. "No," he mouthed.

Dean's heart ached for his brother, who had once been so strong and healthy. Dean hadn't nicknamed Sam "Sasquatch" just because of his height. It was beginning to really sink in just how debilitated Sam was and how far he was going to have to go to get back to normal.

Bobby reached over and patted Dean's back in a comforting, fatherly gesture.

Dr. Davis had noticed Sam's reaction to his question and was quick to try to ease his mind. "It's okay, Sam. I'm just trying to get an idea of where our starting point is. There's no good or bad answers. I know it's scary and overwhelming, but you _will_ get better. Okay?"

Sam's lids sagged for a moment and then his eyes widened, fighting sleep. Finally, he blinked twice distinctively in acknowledgment.

"Stay with me, Sam," encouraged the doctor. "We're almost done." He handed his pen and Sam's chart to Linda and grabbed Sam's hand, holding it in a way where Sam's hand was facing palm downward, resting in Dr. Davis's hand. "Okay, Sam. We're just going to start out with resistance exercises, at least in the beginning. I want you to try to press my hand down, if you can. If you can't, it's okay. Again, I'm just trying to get an idea of what our starting point is so I know what to tell your physical therapist. Are you with me?"

Sam's response was two distinctive, yet groggy blinks in the affirmative.

"On the count of three, I want you to give it all you've got. One, two, three."

Sam's face scrunched up in concentration, but there was no visible movement in his or Dr. Davis's hand.

After a minute, Dr. Davis gently rested Sam's hand back on the bed. "Good, Sam," he praised, his expression neutral.

Sam's eyes glanced at Dean, and Dean tried not to blanch at the fear he saw in his kid brother's eyes. He squeezed Sam's shoulder, trying to convey that everything would be okay.

Dr. Davis uncovered Sam's legs and repeated similar exercises, one at a time, bending each of them at the knee and asking Sam to try to push against the palm of his hand, which was against the sole of Sam's foot. Again, he praised Sam's efforts but didn't comment on what kind of results he'd gotten.

Skirting around the bed, he finished last with Sam's left hand. "Okay, Sam. You know the drill. On the count of three, you're going to try to push my hand down. One, two, three."

A light sheen of sweat had popped out on Sam's face from all the exertion, and he was obviously growing more fatigued with each minute, but he gave another valiant effort, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow.

Dr. Davis was focused on Sam's hand when he suddenly looked up sharply at Sam's face.

Sam opened his eyes and breathed rapidly, as if he'd been working out, and then a dimpled grin of surprise and relief spread slowly across his features.

Dr. Davis laughed in delight. "That was excellent, Sam!" He looked to Dean and Bobby, who had both moved to the foot of the bed to give the doctor more room. "I felt a pressure this time. He was definitely pushing down on my hand a bit."

Dean moved over and clapped Sam on the shoulder, grinning. "Way to go, Sammy."

"Good job, kiddo," congratulated Bobby.

Even Linda chimed in. "That's great, Sam." She patted his knee, smiling, and dabbed away the sweat from his face with a cloth she had gotten from the bathroom.

Sam's grin grew weaker, and his eyes drifted closed. Every line of his face spelled exhaustion.

Dean looked at Dr. Davis. "I think we're losing the star of the show." He paused for a moment and then frowned. "It's like he just ran a marathon."

Dr. Davis grimaced. "Actually, Dean, that's exactly what it feels like to Sam." He turned to Linda and began to confer with her over Sam's chart.

Dean squeezed Sam's left hand, hopeful that he might get a response, but there was nothing. Dean leaned close to Sam's ear. "Don't worry. We're gonna kick your ass back into shape," for good measure, he added, "bitch."

Sam's lids fluttered a moment and then stilled.

Dean thought for sure Sam was asleep, but then he noticed his little brother's lips move.

"Jerk," Sam formed silently, and then his breathing evened out into the rhythm of slumber.

**SWDWSWDW**

"He's still pretty out."

"Well, why don't we go ahead and turn him, and I can come back a little later and give him his supper. He's been on his back probably longer than he should have already."

Dean and Francine. That's who was talking, Sam thought muzzily. He felt himself being rolled onto his right side, his legs being bent slightly at the knees, and pillows were being wedged next to his back and chest to hold him in place. God, despite the constant therapy he'd been enduring, he still couldn't even turn himself over. It was beyond maddening, and he kept his eyes closed and played possum, not up to donning a brave face for Dean or Bobby or Francine or whatever well-meaning, overly cheerful nurse or doctor or therapist was there to poke and prod him.

From seven in the morning until five in the evening, Sam's days were scheduled down to the second. If he wasn't doing some sort of physical therapy or speech therapy, he was trying to swallow water or ice chips or being fed through the damn feeding tube, which he found humiliating and which, for some reason, made him feel more like a useless invalid than the fact that he couldn't pick up his hand to use the TV remote or hold a cup of water. Interspersed between these cycles of therapy and daily necessities, like being bathed and the joys of using a bedpan, he slept like a frigging newborn. Every therapy session, every damn swallow, wore him out.

On the upside, it had been two weeks since his first—well, first he could remember—encounter with Dr. Davis, and he had made some progress. He could move his head from side to side on the pillow with effort, could nod yes or no. He could now usually swallow water or ice (to his immense relief), especially in the morning, although by evening his throat would be fatigued and sore and he couldn't get it to work as well. His vision was steadily improving, and he was now able to focus on objects or people farther away from him, and the light sensitivity was diminishing.

He had made progress with his speech, if a weak whisper for a voice could be called progress. At least most people could understand him now, although they'd have to lean down with their ear close to his mouth to hear him.

Of his limbs, his left hand worked the best. He could now push down on his therapist's hand more easily during resistance exercises, and he could squeeze the largest and softest of the Thera-Band balls very weakly. He had the strength of a kitten—a really small, tiny one.

His right hand and legs had improved a little, too. He could at least exert pressure with them during the resistance exercises now, but he still didn't have any movement when he tried to move them or lift them on his own. He tried not to think about how his body had once been an efficient and toned machine and how hard he had trained to be in top hunting and fighting condition, only to wake up and find himself trapped in the body of a thin, weak, gangly teenager. He wasn't a vain person, but, even for him and all he'd been through, it was pretty hard to accept.

He had also become obsessed with time. He had lost two years of it. Dean and Bobby had tried to explain to him, in between intrusions of therapists and nurses and naps, how the hell he had ended up where he was. Sam had been shocked to realize that, although he'd apparently been topside for two years now after the swan dive with Lucifer, he had no memory of anything that had happened in those two years. Of course, he'd been unconscious for a chunk of that time. Still, there was a year and a half that he should remember, but the slate had been wiped clean.

Dean had seemed relieved at Sam's memory loss and had basically told him to let sleeping monsters lie, that it could be dangerous for him to remember, that Death had put some sort of wall to protect him from memories of hell which he shouldn't "scratch"—whatever that meant.

Bobby had been too quiet during Dean's explanation, and Sam knew without a doubt Dean was holding things back, protecting him in that older-brother, overprotective, infuriating way Dean had.

When Sam had asked how Bobby was alive, Bobby had explained that after Lucifer had blown Castiel to bits, someone, probably God, had miraculously put Castiel back together again. Cas had, in turn, brought Bobby back to life.

Sam had a million more questions to ask Dean and Bobby about the time period he couldn't remember, but Dean was evasive and gave Bobby dire looks of warning or rudely cut him off if Bobby tried to answer. For Sam's part, it was hard to argue with Dean when he couldn't really talk and kept getting distracted by nurses and therapists or fell asleep like an infant every five minutes.

"Open your eyes, Sam."

Startled from his musings, Sam's eyes flew open, and a jolt of pain shot through his head at the sudden intrusion of light. He shut his eyes. His light sensitivity had improved, but he had to slowly open his eyes and let them adjust, or he still felt it. Trying again, he blinked a few times and squinted, and his eyes began to focus.

Dean was sitting in a chair by the bed, leaning forward, looking into Sam's face with familiar hazel eyes. "I knew you were faking it. Rise and shine, Captain Narcolepsy." He rattled a cup of ice water containing a straw in front of Sam, implying with a waggle of his eyebrows that it was time for a drink.

Sam sighed, feeling the long-suffering irritation of a little brother. Some things about Dean hadn't changed, although he'd been unusually affectionate since Sam had come out of the coma, giving Sam little reassuring pats and squeezes, a lot of times for no apparent reason. His brother had never been the touchy-feely type before, to say the least. Sam kept reminding himself, though, that it had been two years for Dean since Sam had been himself, and he wondered again what he'd been like that year and a half without a soul. Whatever he might have done, Dean and Bobby were obviously glad to have him back.

He wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he knew it must be evening because his last physical therapy session had ended at five, and his throat hurt from the day's exertion. He worked it a bit in preparation for trying to speak. "Dean," he whispered feebly, "I'm lying...on my side."

Dean frowned a bit and leaned in even closer to Sam. "What?"

Sam swallowed painfully. "Lying on...my side," he repeated. "Hard...to drink."

Understanding, Dean slumped back in the chair. "Oh. Yeah. We better leave you that way, too. Francine and I just turned you." He waved the cup again in front of Sam. "Doesn't matter. Maybe this'll just work your throat muscles from a different angle if you try it lying down. That's what Tony Horton recommends. It's called 'muscle confusion.'"

Sam was surprised that Dean knew who Tony Horton was.

"What? I work out," he declared indignantly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Since when?" he whispered.

"You're just jealous," stated Dean, patting Sam's arm. "Don't worry, Sammy. You'll have your girlish figure back in no time." He lifted the straw of the cup up to Sam's lips and gave an evil-older-brother grin. "Down the hatch, bitch."

Sam gingerly took a sip of the ice-cold liquid. The odd angle the water entered his mouth made him cough mildly, but he was able to get it down without choking. He took a few more sips, enjoying the feel of the icy water sliding down his tortured throat. Sated, he moved his head a fraction and spit out the straw, signaling to Dean he'd had enough. "Where's Bobby?" he whispered.

Dean stood up half way and reached over to set the cup on the overbed table that was at the foot of Sam's bed. "Went to get burgers." As he sat back down, he added, "Your last therapy session must have really worn you out. You were asleep for an hour and a half. Francine came in to bring your 'supper,' but we thought you were out like a light, so she said she'd come back later. I'm sure she'll be in soon with that delectable concoction of white-shit-in-a-bag that constitutes your dinner."

Sam made a face.

"Dude, it's a health geek's wet dream. It's perfectly balanced nutritionally."

Sam didn't care how nutritious it was. He just wanted the PEG tube gone.

"Besides, Doc Davis says you're getting pretty good at this swallowing thing. You ought to be graduating to milkshakes soon, or maybe some mashed up oats or some pureed soup. M'm! M'm! Good!" Dean rubbed his stomach for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes and let a few seconds of silence stretch between them while he tried to figure out the best way to phrase his next question. "Dean," he whispered as loudly as he could, straining his throat, "how did you...convince Death to...restore my soul?"

Dean's always-kinetic body stilled, and he hesitated for a split second. "What?"

Sam knew that his stubborn older brother had heard him. He gathered the strength he needed to speak again. "Did you make...a deal?"

Dean leaned forward in an intense posture. "No, Sam. It wasn't like that."

"Then why—"

There was a light rap at the open threshold of Sam's room. "Housekeeping." It was that girl's voice, the one with the strange eyes. A memory of a warm, confident hand squeezing his flashed in his mind.

He hadn't forgotten her, although he'd been pretty freaked out at the time and a lot had happened since that night. He was curious about her, and if he hadn't been on the verge of coaxing Dean into talking, Sam would've been glad that she was there. But he needed to find out the truth of what had happened, find out if Dean had done something stupid in his dealings with Death, and he still wanted to know what had happened in the time he couldn't account for. The girl couldn't have picked a worse time to knock, although he wasn't surprised. It was impossible to have a conversation without being interrupted in this place.

Sam gave Dean a forbidding scowl, silently warning him not to invite her in. This conversation was long overdue.

Dean ignored him and looked to the doorway. "Oh, hey, Azlin. Come on in."

Sam clenched his jaw tightly and drew in an angry breath. Dean was such a dick. Sam was so mad he actually curled the fingers of his left hand into a loose fist as it rested on top of the pillow, and he could feel his muscles tensing all over his body. In that moment, he hated his helpless, useless body, felt like he would explode with frustration, and he was furious with Dean for treating him like a child.

Sam could hear the squeaking of the cart the girl—Azlin—pushed somewhere behind him. Of course, he couldn't see her because he was lying on his right side facing away from her and couldn't do a damn thing about it. His inability to see her added insult to injury, and, irrationally, he was angry with her, too. He hated the way she was so evasive, usually coming to clean when he was asleep or otherwise occupied, and always ignored him.

Dean hadn't looked back to Sam, his eyes darting everywhere in the room except at Sam's face.

_Yeah, you better avoid looking at me, you jackass,_ thought Sam. He continued to stare at Dean, hoping his gaze would bore a hole through his older brother's thick head.

Dean smiled in the direction somewhere above and over Sam's head.

Sam could hear loud music blaring from what he assumed was Azlin's earphones and the quiet sliding and clicking noise of maybe a dust mop right behind him. She must be close to his bed.

"So, uh, Azlin?" ventured Dean.

There was no response, just more music from the earphones.

"Azlin?" Dean said a little louder.

More earphone noise and dust mop sounds.

Frowning, Dean stood and reached his arm out over Sam, and Sam assumed he was trying to get her attention. Finally, Dean yelled, "Azlin!"

Abruptly, the noise from the earphones stopped. "What." It was a statement of annoyance, not a polite acknowledgment.

Dean pulled his arm back abruptly, a look of uncertainty on his face. "I just wanted to say hi, I guess. It's been a while since we've talked."

Silence.

An expression of _what's your problem? _crossed Dean's features, but he regained his characteristic confidence that was so purely Dean and smiled. "I thought you might want to meet Sam, since you were a big part of helping him wake up. I mean, he's actually awake right now. You've caught him between naps."

Sam's jaw tightened again. _Thanks, Dean, for making it sound like I'm two. You're such an ass._

Dean finally met Sam's gaze but ignored Sam's obvious ire. "She spent a lot of time with you, man, when you were Snoozy McSnoozer."

_Helped him wake up? Spent a lot of time? _What was Dean talking about? Why would the cleaning girl help him out of a coma?

"We've met," was her lackluster reply.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"The night he panicked. I stayed with him while Francine went to get him a sedative."

Embarrassed, Sam slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath. What a great way to make a first impression that had been.

Dean looked at Sam, amusement evident in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the smirk he wore.

Sam heard the cart squeaking in movement, and, suddenly, she was in his line of sight. She had her back to him, and Sam thought he saw a tiny tattoo of something at the nape of her neck, but his vision still wasn't up to par and he couldn't quite make out what it was. She wore skinny jeans, dark-gray sneakers, and a drab light-blue scrub top. She was grabbing a spray bottle and some kind of disposable cloth, her hand on the door handle of the bathroom. She hadn't made the slightest move to look over at him.

He felt a strange twinge of disappointment. Wasn't she even curious about him? They _had_ kind of shared a moment, after all. He cringed inwardly, realizing he was thinking like a thirteen-year-old girl. Thank God Dean couldn't read his mind.

Dean turned to her. "Hey, Azlin, you and Chad ought to start playing again for Sam. His last therapy session ends at five, so it gets kind of boring in the evenings. You think Sharon would mind if you two played for Sam for, like, thirty minutes or so, maybe after dinner or something?"

_Played what? _thought Sam. He hated being so damn clueless about everything.

Azlin turned toward Dean and Sam then, and Sam felt an odd jolt in his stomach. Cerulean. That was the color of her eyes. Why had he thought they were strange? They were beautiful and unforgettable, in stark contrast to the short, black hair that framed her face.

Azlin shrugged, her face unreadable. "She probably wouldn't mind, if I asked her."

Dean smiled. "Awesome."

"But I'm not going to ask her," she declared flatly.

The smile on Dean's face fell. "Why?"

"Because I'm not a fucking babysitter."

Sam winced at the slight, but then she glanced at him, a faint hint of mischief sparking in her eyes. At least, Sam thought he had seen it. If he had blinked, he would have missed it. Still, he laughed soundlessly, no longer taking offense to what she had said. It was more like she was thwarting Dean instead of insulting him, and he was big on thwarting Dean any way possible at the moment.

Her gaze lingered on Sam a fraction of a second longer, and the tip of her tongue touched her top teeth.

Sam thought he had seen the flash of a tongue piercing. The little action had seemed guileless, like she was unaware that she did it, but it was sexy as hell. His throat suddenly felt dry, and for the first time since he'd had a clue what was going on around him, he wondered how a certain body part in his nether regions had been affected by seven months of coma.

Dean's jaw was granite hard. He hadn't seen Sam laughing, and Sam knew the dangerous fury that was brewing just below the surface of Dean's outward calm. Azlin had insulted Sam, and there was no way Dean would let that slide. In that weird way with most siblings, it was okay for Dean to insult him, but not anyone else.

Dean's voice was gruff and hard as flint. "I didn't ask you to babysit. You and I need to have a little talk."

Azlin rolled her eyes and opened the door to the bathroom. "I don't think so."

_What the hell? _Dean obviously had some kind of history with this girl. Had Dean slept with her or something? Sam's stomach tightened suddenly in discomfort at the thought, and he felt his anger with Dean flare again.

Dean turned to Sam and met his eyes, the muscles in his neck tense, jaw clenched again.

Trying to diffuse the situation, Sam said in a harsh whisper, "Dean, it's okay."

But Dean had already turned toward the bathroom, not hearing. He disappeared inside and slammed the door behind him.

Well, that was awkward. And now Sam was stuck lying there by himself, wondering for the thousandth time what the hell was going on and hating with every fiber of his being the fact that he couldn't even yell in frustration.

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Dean slammed the door of the bathroom behind him with a bang.

Azlin's back was to the door, and she was leaning into the large, handicap-accessible shower spraying it with some sort of strong, hospital-smelling disinfectant. Her iPod was turned back on, and music was blaring again from her earbuds. There was a pause in the spraying in reaction to the slamming of the door, but she quickly resumed.

Dean was pissed. He knew Azlin guarded her emotions closely and could be cold, but he'd seen glimpses of compassion in her, especially toward Sam. Dean had been incredulous and then angered by her callous refusal to play her guitar for Sam and the insult she'd flung out. Hell, she'd spent almost twenty-four hours a day in Sam's room when he'd been in the coma and hadn't batted an eye. Dean had thought she and Chad might want to start up again. It was a chance for them to play together—something she and Chad had both clearly enjoyed—and something to entertain Sam, who was starting to stay awake for longer periods of time and was bound to start getting bored eventually.

"_I'm not a fucking babysitter," _she'd said. Where did she get off? Sam didn't deserve that. He had enough reminders of how incapacitated he was without some insensitive bitch driving the point home.

Dean grabbed her arm, the one she was spraying with, and turned her to face him. He wanted to make sure he had her full attention. "What's your fucking problem?"

Hostility flashed in her piercing eyes, and her posture was defiant.

Dean was several inches taller than she was, and he knew he could be intimidating, especially when he was angry, but she showed no fear of him. He pulled the earbuds out of her ears, letting them fall. "What's...your...fucking...problem?" he enunciated, as if she were hard of hearing.

She jerked her arm from his grasp and then took her time setting her cleaning supplies on the vanity, again showing she wasn't afraid. She turned off her iPod, slinging her now-dangling earbuds over one shoulder, and looked up at Dean coldly, blue eyes like ice. "I...don't...have...a fucking...problem," she mimicked. She folded her arms over her chest and cocked her head to one side. "What's _your_ fucking problem?"

Dean tensed as his anger surged but kept his voice even. "I take issue with you insulting my brother. He just woke from a _coma_. It's going to take him a while to recover from that, but he doesn't need a goddamn babysitter."

"Okay. Thanks for clarifying that." Her tone was indifferent. "Do you mind if I go back to work now?"

Dean shook his head, amazed that she could be so callous. "Do you realize how embarrassing your little remark was for him? He didn't deserve that. He wasn't the one that pissed in your Cheerios this morning."

She shrugged. "Didn't seem to bother him."

Dean was ready to strangle her and realized this wasn't getting him anywhere. Obviously, her tact filter was on the fritz, if she'd ever had one in the first place. Time to try a new approach. "Why won't you play for him, Azlin? Put yourself in his place for a second. He can't do anything but lie there all day every day. He basically can't move any part of his body, and he's got no privacy whatsoever. He experiences a thousand little humiliations every single day, and he can't even turn the TV on or off or change the fucking channel to distract himself. I just thought—"

"Sounds like he needs a fucking babysitter."

New approach out the window. "Dammit, Azlin!," he yelled. "Why are you being such a heartless bitch? I mean, hell, you practically lived in Sam's room for a month when we were working with him!"

"That's exactly right, Dean!" she snapped, blue eyes blazing. "What the fuck do you want from me? Haven't I given enough of my time, my _life_, to you two? It's not enough that I spent twenty-four/seven in his room for a month? Now you want me to take time out of either my work schedule or my own personal time to come and entertain him now that he's awake, too? I did my good deed." She gave a short, humorless laugh. "I helped _miraculously_ wake him up from a fucking _coma_, for God's sake. What more do you want from me!"

Dean was stunned. His gaze was locked onto hers, jaw tight. They seemed to be in some kind of a standoff, eyes skewering each other, but, as her words sunk in, his anger began to deflate. He knew he had asked a lot of her in those weeks, but she had never complained, and it had seemed so evident that she had loved playing the music, loved the jam sessions with Chad, and even that she had cared about Sam. Dean thought they had built a rapport during those weeks, a friendship even, but, apparently, it had been one-sided.

He hated being indebted to people, so maybe he'd deluded himself into thinking that the imposition on her hadn't been so bad, that maybe she hadn't minded so much. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I thought—you never—I'm sorry. You're right. I've asked a lot of you. I don't have a right to ask any more."

She reached over to get her cleaning supplies. "I _am_ a heartless bitch, Dean," she said matter-of-factly. "Those weeks with Sam, that was an aberration for me, and now I'm fresh out of selfless acts. Don't ask me to care what happens to him anymore. I can't."

Dean nodded. He felt drained, and he reached for the door handle but then turned again to her. "Bobby and I, we're leaving again soon, and we don't know for how long. I haven't told Sam, yet." He paused. "It's going to be hard on him. I just thought if you and Chad—"

"Don't put your guilt trip on me. If you feel bad that Sam will be alone, then don't leave him. What's so important that you can't stay with him?"

He wanted to say that nothing was more important than Sam, but it was always the lives of others—strangers—that were more important, that he had to save, that he'd sacrificed so much for and, yes, sometimes hurt the ones he loved for. He hated to leave Sam, knew that it would upset Sam, that his little brother needed him, and he had put off telling him. He was failing Sam yet again, and he was filled with guilt. "I've been here for over a month, Azlin. I have to get back to my...job. Bob—Uncle Bobby and I can stay another week, but Sam's rehab—well, it's gonna take awhile."

She stared at him a moment. "Is it illegal, what you do? Is that why you're so vague about it?"

And there it was, or a version of it, anyway, the age-old question any civilian that ever got to know the Winchesters even a little always asked and one of the reasons they could never get close to anyone or have a normal life. Honesty meant pulling the civilian into the dangerous vortex of their lives; the alternative was living a lie. Sam had learned that lesson firsthand with Jessica. He had tried living the lie, and Jessica had died anyway.

Azlin was very perceptive, and Dean just didn't have the energy at the moment to think of anything plausible that she might believe, so he didn't answer the question. Instead, he changed the subject. "Sam doesn't know it was you. I don't even know if he remembers any of it or if he was cognizant enough to know what was happening. He hasn't asked about it, and it hasn't come up in conversation. I should have told him. I guess I kind of did earlier. He's gonna have a million questions, now, about you. You deserve the credit. He should know what you did for him."

She swallowed, and there was a softening of her features. Then, her wall went back up. "Nice evasion of my question." She turned back to the shower and started wiping it down before adding, "Don't tell him."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Right. But if he asks, which he _will, _I'm not gonna lie to him; that is, if Francine or someone else doesn't tell him first."

Her back to him, she continued her scrubbing. "Whatever. I don't really give a shit one way or the other."

"Someone really did a number on you, didn't they, Azlin?" Dean had said it quietly, more to himself.

She paused for a fraction of a second and then scrubbed even more vigorously, ignoring him.

**SWDWSWDW**

Bobby knocked at Sam's open door before entering, carrying two bags of cheeseburgers in his hand. He liked to make a show of respecting Sam's right to a little privacy, however feeble a gesture it really was. He'd expected to hear a response from Dean, knowing that Sam wouldn't be able to, but heard nothing.

Tentatively, he peered through the threshold and saw Sam lying propped on his right side, no Dean or anyone else in sight. He tried to be quiet as he walked over and set the burgers on the overbed table, thinking Sam was still asleep. Upon closer inspection, though, he saw the hard set to Sam's jaw and the tension radiating from his body. Sam's eyes were following Bobby's movements, his brow furrowed.

The boy had, so far, admirably endured the daily trials of his predicament—not to mention Dean's usual older-brother antics—without complaint, so Bobby wondered what could have upset him. He would bet all the gold in Fort Knox it was something Dean had said or done.

For all the evil Sam was supposed to have had inside of him because of old Yellow Eyes, he was one of the most honorable, sensitive, compassionate human beings Bobby had ever known, and Bobby could count on one hand the number of times Sam had really lost his temper—and the boy had definitely had more than his fair share of reasons to lose it.

Bobby felt a twinge of guilt. They'd all—Dean, Cas, and himself—lost faith in Sam somewhere along the way, but the boy had more than proven himself in the end. Bobby hadn't appreciated the horrific remorse Sam must have felt in springing Lucifer from his cage and beginning the Apocalypse until he'd realized what Sam was willing to do to rectify it. Sam had not only been willing to give his life to save the world, he'd given that life knowing he was condemning himself to an eternity of torture in hell. Bobby didn't know too many men, except maybe Dean, who would have been willing to do that, not even himself.

Bobby still remembered the nauseating terror and shock he'd felt when Soulless Sam had tried to kill him. He wasn't even sure he'd really gotten over it seeing Sam wasting away all those months in the coma, still not knowing who Sam would be when he woke up. Bobby had been a lot more distrustful of Death than Dean had been. However, once he'd gotten a good look into Sam's eyes that first time after Sam had come to, his trepidation had been swept away in a powerful tide of emotion. The old cliché was true; the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Bobby knew without a doubt that the boy he loved like a son was back.

And now, as if Sam hadn't been through enough with his little vacation to the basement, he was living another hell topside. Bobby knew firsthand what it was like to be a prisoner in your own body. At least there was a good prognosis for Sam, and he was already starting to regain some of his movement, however limited it was at the moment. That didn't make the frustration and futility Sam probably felt any less daunting, though.

Bobby sat down in the chair in front of Sam and leaned toward him a little so Sam could see him better and so he could hear Sam's soft whisper. "You want to tell me what's wrong, kiddo?"

Sam smirked, his eyes filled with irony.

"Yeah," said Bobby dryly, "I know. Stupid question. Let me start with the most obvious answer. Where's Dean?"

Sam's smirk morphed into a brief, genuine smile, but then he grew serious. "Mile High Club," he replied in a faint whisper.

Bobby wasn't sure he'd heard him right and leaned in closer. "Did you say 'Mile High Club'?"

Sam nodded and indicated with his eyes the bathroom behind Bobby.

Bobby turned in the chair to see what Sam was looking at and saw Azlin's large, yellow cleaning cart sitting outside the bathroom. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear voices behind the heavy, closed door-angry voices. Bobby turned back to Sam, bewildered. "Is Dean in there with Azlin?"

Sam nodded.

"Why?"

Sam took in a fortifying breath and then swallowed gingerly. "Who is...she?" he said again in that barely-audible whisper.

Bobby eyed Sam for a moment, trying to figure out exactly what was going on without asking a lot of questions that would tax Sam's throat. He decided wisely that patience was the answer. Whatever was going on in there would probably come to light eventually. In the meantime, he could answer Sam's question. "It's amazing this hasn't come up before."

Sam's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

Bobby sighed and began to explain. "Azlin is a very talented musician, and when I say 'talented,' I mean like scary, Mozart talented. She's a genius, judging by some of the things Dean has told me and what I've seen for myself."

Sam's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"When you were comatose, it was discovered by accident that when she played the guitar for you, you would respond to it. Up until then, you hadn't responded to any other outside stimuli, including any other kind of music. So, basically for the month leading up to when you came out of it, she was in here pretty much on the hour every hour playing for you. It's like, when she played for you, it opened a door into your head, and then Dean and I could talk to you, and you would react to us. Without her playing first, though, you didn't seem to be able to hear Dean and me and couldn't respond."

Sam's features showed a mixture of wonder and disbelief, and then his brows furrowed in that inquisitive way that he had. "So Dean..." He swallowed and winced.

Bobby reached for the cup of water on the overbed table and offered the straw to Sam.

Sam took a few grateful, labored, sips. "Dean and Azlin?" he prompted.

Bobby sighed again, thinking on the best way to describe Azlin. "Azlin is aloof, to put it mildly. That girl's got more issues than Dean, I think, when it comes to human relationships. I don't know what's in her past, but it ain't pleasant."

Sam frowned.

"She was in here so much in those weeks, Dean and I both got to know her—as much as anyone can get to know her, anyway. She's a different person when she's playing her music. I think she and Dean struck up an uneasy friendship of sorts, especially after I had to leave." Bobby jerked his head toward the door of the bathroom. "I don't know what's going on in there. I suspect you might know more of what that's all about than I would."

Sam gave a faint huff.

"Since you woke up, we haven't seen her much, except for when she comes to do up your room, and you've probably noticed she ain't one for small talk."

Sam quirked one side of his mouth and nodded. "And Chad?" he whispered.

"Chad would come in here about an hour before his shift started in the evenings and play his guitar with Azlin. They had quite the jam session, sometimes. It was during one of those sessions when you opened your eyes for the first time."

"Do you think," Sam whispered, "that Dean and Azlin..." He averted his gaze from Bobby as if he were a little embarrassed and swallowed.

Bobby snorted. "That he slept with her?"

Sam's jaw tensed.

Bobby was surprised by the reaction but tried not to show it. "No," he asserted, "I don't. I can't say for sure, but I just don't get that vibe from them. At most, they might be called friends, and I use that term loosely. Besides, he's good at hiding it, but Dean ain't over Lisa."

Sam relaxed more than he had since Bobby had first brought in the burgers.

There was a knock at the door, and Francine stuck her head in. "You ready for some supper now, hon?"

Sam closed his eyes as though steeling himself and nodded.

Bobby felt a pang of sympathy for the kid. Of all the things Sam had to go through, it seemed the feeding tube was one of the things he disliked the most.

Francine sailed into the room, food bag in hand. "Bobby, you want to give me a hand in turning him over?"

As they were turning Sam back onto his back, Dean came out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He looked weary.

Bobby moved over and began to sort out the burgers and fries on the table. "It's about time you got out here, boy. Our fries are cold. What have you two been doin' in there?"

Francine, who was hooking the food bag to Sam's PEG tube, frowned in confusion when she noticed Azlin's cart by the bathroom. "Yeah," she drawled archly. "Wouldn't we all like to know."

Dean snorted. "Let's just say one of us was getting an attitude adjustment. She was being a bitch."

Bobby took in Dean's drained appearance. "And which one of you got the adjustment?"

Dean shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. "I'm not sure, Bobby. I'm not sure."

"I was just telling Sam how Azlin helped rouse him out of the coma." Bobby pushed the burger and fries across the table to Dean.

Dean shifted his attention to Sam. "That didn't take long."

Sam looked annoyed and whispered, "It's not like...you would have...told me."

Dean rolled his eyes and stuck a fry in his mouth.

Bobby saw Francine subtly pull Sam's white t-shirt down over the feeding tube to conceal it as much as possible. She must have felt Bobby's eyes on her because she looked up and winked at him without Sam seeing.

Bobby thought again what a damn good nurse she was.

**SWDWSWDW**

When Azlin finished cleaning the bathroom, she jacked up her iPod volume as loud as it would go, ignoring the pain it caused her ears. She wasn't going to get sucked into another conversation with the "Blackmore" brothers. She eased the door open, eyes focused on her cart, and stowed her mop and other cleaning supplies back in their proper place. She avoided eye contact with anyone in the room, hoping she could escape without too much notice, but she could feel their attention on her.

As she pushed the cart toward the door, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Dean and his uncle sharing Sam's overbed table, both of their mouths full of burgers. Sam was lying on his back now, bed inclined to a sitting position, and Francine was on the other side of Sam's bed, standing beside the IV pole. She had obviously just connected a food bag to Sam's feeding tube and was waiting for it to empty.

Azlin caught a movement from Sam. He had turned his head in her direction.

She knew she shouldn't look at him directly, but she couldn't resist. She was drawn to him like a magnet.

His eyes were full of humor and warmth and something more serious, his ever-present dimples highlighting the faint curve to his mouth, as if he were sharing something private with her. His shaggy dark-brown hair had fallen forward a bit and accentuated his broad cheekbones and square jaw. God, there was no denying it. Sam Whatever-The-Fuck-His-Real-Name-Was was _hot_.

Her body tingled and her heart did a quick flip. It had to be frustrating and scary, waking from a coma into a body that didn't work, but, just from the observations she'd made mostly from afar, he never seemed to be sullen or morose. He had come out of it with his sense of humor intact, usually wearing a faint smile or a stoic, determined expression, and Azlin admired him all the more for that.

She hadn't meant to insult Sam with the babysitter remark. She had just wanted to make it clear to Dean that she wasn't going to get roped in to the whole guitar thing again, and she'd found through life experience that the quickest way to shut someone up was to be rude. The moment she'd said it, though, she'd felt like an epic bitch and had quickly glanced to see Sam's reaction, trying to convey to him somehow that she hadn't meant to hurt him.

When he'd laughed behind Dean's back, it had been so open and genuine, even without sound, that it had thoroughly charmed her. He had such a dangerous effect on her, and she knew if she started playing guitar for him again, her defenses would be blown to bits. She couldn't be in his presence for five minutes without turning to mush, so there was no way she could spend every day for thirty minutes or more sitting just a foot from his bed. No fucking way.

She hastily turned away from him, still feeling his eyes on her, and made a beeline for the door.

**SWDWSWDW**

Another two weeks had passed, and Sam was now four weeks into his rehab. He was slowly but steadily getting stronger, and Dr. Davis was pleased with his progress.

Sam wasn't. He still couldn't turn himself over, couldn't sit up in a chair, couldn't bathe himself, couldn't walk, couldn't... The list went on. He could, however, lift his left hand up clumsily and control the TV now. His fine motor skills still pretty much stunk, but he could hold the special remote in his weak right hand if it was elevated on a pillow and clumsily push the big, fat buttons on it with his left hand. He had to fist his left hand loosely and use his knuckles to push the buttons, but he got it done.

His grip was getting stronger in both hands. He had graduated to a smaller, firmer therapeutic ball for his left hand and could now squeeze the larger, softer ball in his right hand. He almost constantly had the Thera-Band balls in his hands when he was just lying there.

His legs were pretty much useless and so very heavy, still impossible for him to lift even a fraction. He could, however, exert more pressure during the PT sessions when Karl, his physical therapist, worked with him, and Karl swore that he could tell Sam's legs were getting stronger. Karl had told him that the legs would be the hardest to rehab because it was harder for Sam to work them by himself and, as a result, they got less PT time than the muscles in his neck, arms, and hands.

His stomach and back muscles were in the same category as his legs, although Sam did try to simulate crunches in his mind when he was just lying there, trying to contract those muscles. How much good it did remained to be seen. When someone maneuvered him into a sitting position, he would plop right back onto the bed if they let go.

He stayed awake for much longer periods now, his vision was almost back to normal, and his voice was more of a rasping whisper now, sometimes a croak. At least people seemed to be able to hear him better and didn't have to lean down near his mouth to figure out what he was saying. Even better, the pain in his throat had mostly abated, and his throat didn't get as fatigued by the end of the day.

As Dean had predicted, Sam was now up to swallowing smoothies, oat goop, and pureed soup. He'd been told that if he could keep it all down on a regular basis, they'd remove the feeding tube, so he had forced the food down every chance he got. Apparently, however, his taste buds were still in a coma. He had a hard time swallowing the tasteless glob, not because he couldn't get his throat to work, but because it was so unappetizing and the texture of it made him nauseous.

After one particularly gross bout of vomiting up pureed, beef-vegetable soup, Francine had patted his back and beamed, "That's all right, sugar. At least we know there ain't nothing wrong with your gag reflex."

He was alone at the moment, a rare thing, especially during the day. Dean or Bobby or both of them were almost always in his room, and if they weren't, there was usually a therapist, nurse, or doctor with him. His next PT session should have already started at one-thirty, but one of the day nurses—weirdly, a dude named Hack—had explained that Karl would have to miss because he had to take his kid to the doctor.

Hack had asked if Sam wanted him to fill in instead, but Sam had said it was okay, that his brother and uncle would be back soon and they could help him run through the exercises. Karl had left a list of exercises for Sam to do, which Hack had left on Sam's table.

_Like I need a list_. His physical therapy was still very basic, and he could do it in his sleep—probably had, come to think of it. Most of his therapy was still done in his room, except for an aquatics session in the morning where Karl floated him around like a sick sea turtle. It was one more indignity Sam had to quietly suffer, not to mention the gayness quotient was pretty high, too. It was pretty uncomfortable to be sharing intimate space in a pool with a big, burly Swede named Karl who carried you around as if you were a girl.

There was an MLS soccer game on the TV, and Sam absently worked his hands with his Thera balls while he watched. One good thing about the facility he was in, it had awesome satellite TV. There were a million sports channels, and he could usually catch a soccer game or some other random sport whenever he had a chance. Dean hated watching anything that didn't end in the word "ball," but Sam played his invalid-little-brother card and watched whatever he wanted.

As if on cue, Dean walked into Sam's room, not bothering to knock, as usual. He was carrying a large Wal-Mart sack.

Bobby, who followed behind Dean, stopped and knocked on the open door.

Sam smiled. He knew it was really just for the sake of appearances, but appreciated the courtesy all the same.

Bobby shut the door behind him.

"Dude, still squeezing your balls, I see," said Dean with mock severity.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean," he rasped, "that joke wasn't funny the first hundred times you said it."

Bobby sat down in "his" chair, the large green vinyl chair by Sam's bed. "He knows how to beat a dead horse, don't he?"

Dean plopped the sack on top of the overbed table and stood on the other side of Sam. "But there's so many variations. It's just too good to be true."

Sam shook his head. Dean had the sense of humor of an eleven-year-old.

"You're such a prude."

"You're such a jerk."

Dean laughed and leaned close to take Sam's face in his hands, his voice more intense than Sam would have expected. "Ah, Sammy. You have no idea how great it is to have you back."

Sam pulled his head back away from Dean's hands and croak-whispered, "Dude, get off me." He was so tired of Dean mothering him. He was still a grown man, even if he couldn't feed himself.

Dean straightened and glanced at the table, noticing the PT list. "Where's Karl?"

"Had to take his kid to the doctor."

"What about your therapy?"

Sam shrugged. He was looking up at the TV, feigning interest in the game.

Dean took on his big-brother tone. "Are we supposed to be working on these with you?"

Sam kept watching the game, not answering.

Dean grabbed the list and handed it over to Bobby. "Bobby, make sure we don't leave anything out."

Bobby indicated Sam with his eyes and gave Dean a reproachful look.

Sam pretended he hadn't seen it, keeping his eyes focused on the game.

Dean sighed and took on a conciliatory tone. "Come on, Sam. Let's just get these over with. We've got some things to discuss, and we can do the exercises while we talk."

Bobby nodded.

Sam sighed. "Fine." The remote was still sitting on the pillow, so he released the Thera ball and steadied the remote with his weak right hand. Slowly and painstakingly, he moved his left hand over to push the off button for the TV. He could see both Bobby and Dean on either side of his peripheral vision, both tense and poised to spring as if they wanted to help him but letting him do it on his own. Sam had to concentrate and make several attempts, but, finally, the TV went black.

Dean set the remote and the Thera-Band balls on the overbed table and removed the pillow to the chair that was nearby. He lifted Sam's right hand in the way he'd seen Karl do it, palms opposing, and said, "Push on three. One—"

Sam started pushing, not waiting for the count.

Dean grinned. "That's it, Sam. Good. Hold it for five seconds."

Sam scrunched his face with exertion. "So what...do we have to discuss?" he whispered hoarsely.

Dean's eyes flicked to Bobby for a split second and then back to Sam. "Okay. That's good," he said to Sam.

Sam relaxed for a moment, catching his breath.

After another minute, Dean said, "Ready for the next one?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay. Go."

Sam started pushing again.

As Sam pushed, Dean said, "You remember how we explained about Eve as the Mother of All and how she wants to create enough monsters to outnumber humans?"

Sam nodded and exhaled, resting.

"Well, Bobby and I have found a way to kill her."

Sam looked at Bobby and back to Dean, feeling a twinge of unease. "How?"

Dean indicated for Sam to start another rep.

Sam began to push, but his focus was more on Dean.

Dean gave him an admonishing look. "Come on, man. You can do better than that."

Sam stopped pushing altogether. "How?" he repeated in his croak-whisper.

"Do another rep, and I'll tell you."

Sam gritted his teeth, annoyed, but started pushing, trying harder than the last time.

Dean nodded in satisfaction. "The ashes of a phoenix," he explained.

Sam stopped pushing, staring at Dean and then Bobby in disbelief. "And how are you gonna do that?"

"Sam, the rep," Dean reminded.

Sam let his hand go lax and croaked, "Screw the reps! Tell me what the hell is going on." He winced at the unusual strain he'd put on his throat.

Dean blew out his breath and again looked to Bobby.

Bobby gave a brief nod.

Dean released Sam's hand and gently placed it over Sam's stomach, not looking at Sam's face.

Sam's eyes were glued to Dean, and he was growing more and more alarmed at Dean's reluctant manner.

Bobby took over. "Dean stumbled onto Samuel Colt's old journal. It says that the ashes of a phoenix can kill the Mother, but the problem is, the only known phoenix was killed by the Colt in 1861."

Sam stared at Bobby for a moment, letting that sink in and realizing what it meant. Then he looked at Dean. "You're going to go back in time," he whispered.

Dean, who had found a fascinating spot on the bed near Sam's arm, looked up, a sheepish half-smile on his face. "It's not like I haven't done it before. Besides, it's just for twenty-four hours. That's all Castiel can allow."

Sam's heart began to beat faster, and his stomach knotted in fear. "Dean, the '70s were still modern times," he rasped, "and we're not talking about some Clint Eastwood movie." He paused and swallowed. "Can't you wait until—"

Dean shook his head. "I need Cas to send me back, and he's so wrapped up in the whole heavenly civil war thing that I have to take him when I can get him. He's meeting us at Bobby's in three days."

Sam closed his eyes as overwhelming fear for his brother and the realization that they were leaving washed over him. Both Bobby and Dean were going to leave him. Alone. The fear and sense of betrayal left him reeling. "How long...are you going to be gone?" he whispered.

Dean's eyes were filled with guilt. In a low voice, he said, "I'm not sure, Sammy. Once I get the ashes—"

"If," Sam hissed.

Dean looked determined. "_When_ I get the ashes, we'll have to find Eve and kill her."

What he left unsaid in the silence that followed was that he didn't know how long it would take, that he was leaving Sam for an indefinite amount of time. Sam gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. Looking at Bobby, he pleaded in his croaking whisper, "He can't do this by himself. He needs backup."

Bobby gave him a sympathetic look. "I don't like it any more than you do, kid, but right now, it's the only option."

Sam shook his head. "He can wait...for me." He shifted his gaze to Dean, again pleading, knowing already that what he'd said was ridiculous. Look at the condition he was in. It had taken him four weeks just to be able to swallow pureed food and maneuver his uncoordinated hands to use the TV remote. God knew how long it would be before he'd even be able to sit in a frigging wheelchair, let alone hunt.

Dean's face grew mottled from emotion, and his faint freckles became more prominent. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, his voice heavy and gruff. "I'm sorry, Sammy. It can't wait."

Sam suddenly felt a choking rage, and hot tears stung the back of his eyes, but he'd be damned if he'd cry in front of Bobby and Dean—or anyone. Instead, he lashed out, pouring all the contempt and utter frustration he felt because of his wasted body into the look he gave Dean. "You did this to me," he ground out in a fierce whisper. "You should have left my soul in hell."

_**TBC**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Dean sucked in a breath as if Sam had punched him in the gut, and he wished that Sam had. Sometimes words were more painful than any sort of physical pain.

"_You did this to me," _Sam had said. "_You should have left my soul in hell." _

Dean had questioned the decision he'd made—trusting Death to restore Sam's soul—many times while Sam had been in the coma, but now that Sam was back, the _real _Sam, he didn't regret it. That didn't mean, however, that he didn't hate what Sam was going through. Sam never complained, but Dean knew his little brother suffered every day, and Dean wanted to make him understand. "I had to, Sam. I know things suck right now, but you're gonna get better. You _know_ this is better than hell."

Sam shook his head, scornful. "Look at me, Dean! I'd rather be dead than like this."

Anger and sympathy warred within Dean, and he tried to keep his emotions in check. Sam was upset and didn't know what he was saying.

Bobby stiffened. "You don't mean that, boy."

Sam closed his eyes, his jaw hardening to granite.

"You don't know what you were like, Sam!" exclaimed Bobby as he stood up.

"Bobby!" Dean eyed him in warning.

Bobby was defiant. "He needs to know, Dean."

"It's too dangerous!"

Sam gave Bobby a penetrating stare. "Tell me."

"You didn't have a _soul_, Sam. You had no conscience. You tried to—"

"That's enough, Bobby!" yelled Dean.

Sam's gaze never wavered from Bobby. "Tell me," he rasped.

Bobby looked at Dean. "He needs to know."

Dean felt his anger rising. "Know what, Bobby? That he was a soulless dickbag?" He looked at Sam. "You were a soulless dickbag, Sam. Are you fucking satisfied now?"

Sam's jaw was still rock hard, and he gave Dean a mutinous look before he said to Bobby, "Tell...me."

Dean could see by the resolute look on Bobby's face that he'd lost the battle.

Bobby's voice was low but seemed to reverberate through the room. "You tried to kill me, Sam."

Sam was silent, taking that in, and then denial and disbelief crossed his features. "What?"

"It doesn't matter, Sam! Let it go!" Dean interjected. His heart was starting to pound. They shouldn't be taking this chance with Sam's sanity, playing with fire.

Sam ignored him, keeping his eyes on Bobby.

Bobby continued. "You didn't want your soul back, were afraid of what it would do to you. And you were justified, as we all well know."

Sam nodded and swallowed hard.

Dean winced at the reminder of the last eight months, of the coma and the long road ahead for Sam's recovery. He was so angry with Bobby he wanted to punch him.

"There were other dangers, as well," Bobby went on. "As you also know, if something happens to the wall in your head, you could go insane. That's why Dean doesn't want you to try to remember those days without your soul."

Sam gave a slight nod.

Bobby's voice took on an ominous tone. "You retained a spell from Balthazar that would make your body become so tainted it wouldn't be a fit vessel for a soul. It required the blood of your father. If that wasn't possible...a father _figure_ would do instead."

The dark portent of Bobby's last words hung in the air.

"Oh, God, Bobby," Sam rasped, his eyes filled with horror. "I-I'm so sorry."

"Goddammit, Bobby!" yelled Dean. "That's enough! He doesn't need to know the details."

Whether in reaction to Dean or the look on Sam's face, Bobby finally nodded and said no more.

Sam stared in stunned silence.

Dean could imagine the gears turning in Sam's head and knew Sam was wondering what else he might have done, who else he might have hurt, that he was trying to remember. Dean laid a hand on Sam's arm, voice firm. "It doesn't matter, Sam. It wasn't really you."

Sam gulped. "I have to—"

"No!" Dean interrupted vehemently, shaking his head. "You have to let it go. There's nothing you can do to change anything now, and trying to remember could only make things worse—a lot worse."

Sam's features were drawn in remorse, and Dean prayed that Bobby hadn't gone too far, that the wall would stay intact.

Bobby's tone was gruff but soothing. "He's right, son. It wasn't you. You have to concentrate on getting well and moving on. I only told you so that you'd understand why Dean made the decision he did."

Sam looked to Dean. "What I said—I know why you did it, Dean. It was stupid, what I said." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "It's just—"

"It's all right, Sam," said Dean, brushing it off as if Sam's words hadn't pierced him to the core.

Sam still looked stricken.

"Dude, forget it," Dean said with finality. He wanted this fucking conversation to be over. So far, Sam seemed to be okay, except for a massive case of guilt, and he wanted Sam to stay okay.

He stood and grabbed the Wal-Mart sack, pulling a box out of it with a picture of an iPad on it. "Bobby and I went together and got you a little get-well present."

Sam stared at the ceiling, not looking, probably still thinking about things he shouldn't be thinking about.

Dean waved the box a couple of inches from Sam's nose. "Dude, we're trying to bribe you so you'll forget that we're leaving."

Sam tried to focus on the box that was too close to his face. "What is that?"

Dean held it farther away where Sam could see it better. "It's an iPad. Thought you might like a new toy." He pulled the overbed table closer to Sam and set the iPad box on it, opening it.

Sam looked at Bobby and then back to Dean, a look of uncertainty creasing his brow. "Thanks, I think. What does it do?"

Dean shared a look with Bobby and then said to Sam, "Forgot you've been in a time warp. It's like a giant iPhone, sort of. They have Wi-Fi here. We thought when your dexterity gets better, you might want to help us out with some research."

Sam looked down at his hands, and his features darkened. "Great. Why don't you call me in a year?" he rasped.

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Dude, it won't take that long. Your geeky brain will be on research overdrive in no time. It'll be good therapy for your hands. I already talked to Karl about it."

Sam looked tired, and his head seemed to sink deeper into his pillow. "Thanks," he whispered. His voice was fading.

"You're welcome," said Bobby. "I'll take it tonight and get it set up for you."

Sam nodded and closed his eyes.

Dean looked at Bobby. "I think it's naptime. I guess the therapy can wait until later."

Bobby nodded and squeezed Sam's arm. "In that case, I think I'll take that thing right now and try to get it goin'." He started packing the iPad into the Wal-Mart sack to take back to the motel.

Dean thought Sam was asleep, but then his eyes opened again. "You're leaving tomorrow?" he whispered.

Dean felt a stab of guilt. "Yeah."

"I'm still pissed that you're leaving."

"Well, you always were kind of pissy."

Sam closed his eyes again in response, and a frown lingered on his face long after he'd fallen asleep.

**SWDWSWDW**

Francine saw Chad's tall form coming out of Sam's room—purple hair clashing with his hospital-green scrubs—with a frown on his face. He pulled the door to Sam's room shut behind him.

"Is something wrong, hon?"

Chad shrugged a little, his dark eyes flicking toward Sam's door. "It's Sam. The dude doesn't seem like himself."

Francine's stomach dipped in concern. "Yeah. I know what you mean. I haven't been able to get him into a real conversation since Dean and Bobby left four days ago. He just gives me one-word answers, and I'm worried he's not talking enough. He needs to keep those throat muscles working."

Chad nodded in agreement.

She added to herself that she hadn't seen his dimples in a real smile lately, either. Sam was kind of a serious young man, but when he smiled, it had enough watts to light up the town.

She tilted her head a bit, thinking. She wasn't blind. She'd seen what had passed between Azlin and Sam the night of his anxiety attack when Azlin had comforted him—the way he'd stared at her, the way Azlin had touched him. Francine had noticed how every time Azlin entered his room, he would perk up, his eyes following Azlin as she moved around cleaning. And then there was the whole thing about Azlin's music getting through to him, bringing him back to life. It was the closest thing to a miracle Francine had ever seen. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, and she wasn't one to question it.

Azlin, of course, always had her iPod on and kept her eyes averted from anyone in the room, especially Sam. It seemed like she always tried to make herself invisible, not realizing that she had a natural charisma that never went unnoticed. And Francine had seen the subtle change of Azlin's posture whenever she was around Sam, a kind of tenseness that announced the fact that she was aware of him, aware of his eyes on her.

If they could just somehow get Azlin to play her guitar for Sam, Francine _knew_ that it would cheer him up. How could it not? Azlin's music cleansed the soul and made you forget your troubles, at least for the few precious moments that you were lucky enough to hear her play. Too, it might just help to break the ice and maybe start a dialogue between the two of them. Every time they were in the same room together, there was a subtle energy in the air, and if there was one thing Francine knew, it was when a man and a woman were attracted to each other. She hadn't snagged five husbands without learning a thing or two about that. She'd just never figured out how to keep one once she'd reeled him in.

Francine looked around, checking to make sure no one was around to overhear what she was going to say, especially Azlin. The door to Azlin's office was shut, and she knocked on it.

There was no answer.

She opened the door and peeked into the small room, making sure it was empty. It was around eight, and Azlin was usually cleaning patient rooms on the first floor at this time of night, but Francine had wanted to make sure. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she turned to Chad. "I'm thinking Sam needs a little distraction from the fact that his brother and uncle are gone. Don't you think a little concert from you and Azlin might get his mind off of it, at least for a little bit?"

Chad looked skeptical. "Yeah, but you'll never get her to agree to it. I've already tried."

Francine looked at Chad with narrow eyes. "That first time Azlin played for Sam, how did you get her to do it?"

Chad frowned. "Huh?"

"What made her want to play? Obviously, she wouldn't have just gone in there and politely asked you if you'd mind letting her play your guitar," she said wryly.

Chad's mouth tightened at the memory. "Oh. I was just learning a Radiohead song—emphasis on _just learning—_and apparently my playing grated on her ever-so-sensitive, genius ears. She couldn't stand it and reached for the guitar, like, out of reflex. Why do you ask?"

"Hm. You think she might fall for it again?"

Chad looked doubtful. "I don't know. She's pretty smart. She'll probably figure out something's up, and there's the problem of her earbuds. I never see her without them on anymore. She wouldn't be able to hear what I was playing."

Francine gave him a sly look. "You leave them earphones to me. I've got a certain nurse on the day shift that owes me a favor. He might just have to slip into her office when she's gone and _borrow_ those earphones for a day or two, if he can find 'em."

"All right. I'm in," said Chad, and he grinned. "I know the perfect song."

Well, that was that, then. Francine nodded. "Azlin usually comes in during Sam's supper right after she starts work. Tomorrow, why don't you just come in before your shift like you used to and start playing?"

"What if she figures out what we're up to?"

Francine shrugged. "If it don't work, it don't work. The way I see it, we really don't have much to lose."

Chad snorted. "Maybe not much to lose, but we might gain new assholes if she figures out what we're up to."

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin had come in a few minutes before her shift, going over her check sheets and making sure her cart was well stocked before she began. She usually started with Sam's room—for practical reasons and the fact that he wouldn't be alone at that time—and then worked her way down to the first floor.

She opened her desk drawer, reaching for her earbuds, and was surprised to find that they weren't in their usual spot. That was strange. She always put them in her desk drawer, although she usually took her iPod with her if she left so she could listen to it in her car. Had someone taken them? She found that hard to believe. She knew everyone that worked at the hospital—most of them had been there a long time—and she couldn't think of anyone she'd be remotely suspicious of.

She racked her brain, trying to retrace her steps from the night before, and couldn't remember for certain if she'd put them in there or not. Sometimes, she had been known to roll them into a ball and slip them in the pocket of her jeans. After hours of listening, she would have to take them off when she was cleaning the empty kitchen and hallways late at night because she could only listen to the earphones so long before they finally started to hurt her ears.

She'd probably left them in the pocket of her jeans. Dammit. Her family home, where she did her laundry, was out in the country, and it would take her at least forty-five minutes to drive out there and back. She couldn't afford the time. She barely got everything done as it was. She'd just have to live without them this one time. She was annoyed with herself for being so careless.

As she pushed her cart toward Sam's closed door, she heard an acoustic guitar. Chad was playing for Sam? She'd been so preoccupied with looking for her earbuds she hadn't noticed it. Good. Maybe Sam and Francine would be preoccupied with Chad's playing and not pay any attention to her. She always felt their eyes on her whenever she went in there to clean, and she didn't like it. She rapped on the door sharply and called, "Housekeeping."

She heard a muffled "Come in" from Francine.

Azlin opened the door and pushed her cart trough the threshold.

Chad began a new song. It was a song that Azlin had written, one they had worked on a few times right before Sam had come out of the coma but hadn't come up with any lyrics for. Chad was absolutely butchering it. Fuck. Why had she forgotten her earphones? This was going to be torture.

Chad was sitting in the vinyl chair by Sam's bed, and Francine was sitting on the other side, waiting for the food bag to empty. There was also a tray of half-eaten jello, turkey, and mashed potatoes on the overbed table. Azlin winced inwardly with sympathy at the look of the bland, unappetizing fare. At least Sam was apparently eating some solid food.

Sam was sitting up as far as the bed would allow, his uneven dark hair looking rakish. He glanced at Azlin as she walked in, but she quickly averted her attention from him a fraction of a second before their eyes met.

When she chanced a furtive glance at him a few moments later, he was looking at Chad. When Chad hit a particularly off chord, Sam's forehead creased a little, but, otherwise, he was politely enduring the torture, his face unreadable.

Francine's face was impassive. If Chad's playing bothered her, it wasn't evident.

Azlin started dusting and cringed as Chad kept hitting the same wrong chord over and over. What was wrong with him? It hadn't been _that_ long since they'd played it, and Chad wasn't that bad of a guitar player. He was actually quite good. Azlin tried to think of other things, even running through other songs in her mind, but the grating noise of the guitar kept intruding into her thoughts. God, would that fucking song never end?

And then it dawned on her. Of course. Mysteriously missing earphones, Chad playing the guitar horrendously right at the same time she usually cleaned Sam's room. It was a similar setup to the night she had first played Chad's guitar and Sam had moved his eyes. Much too similar. She realized that Chad was trying to manipulate her and was instantly angry.

Then she looked at Francine, who gave her a sweet smile—too sweet, too innocent. God, Francine was in on it, too.

Finally, the song came to its inevitable end, although Azlin knew Chad had looped through it a few extra times to make it last longer. Instead of starting another song, he sat there for a moment, pretending to be thinking of what he wanted to play next.

Francine was giving him an encouraging smile but didn't say anything, which wasn't like Francine at all.

Azlin rolled her eyes. These two were terrible at subterfuge. It was obvious in the awkward silence that followed that they were hoping Azlin would intercede and "rescue" Sam from Chad's horrible playing. Well, it wasn't going to happen. Azlin ignored them, going about her business as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Sam's gaze went from Chad to Francine, looking uncertain.

Chad fiddled a little nervously with his guitar until the silence became really weird. "Uh, I, uh, guess I'll play—"

"Maybe Azlin could play something," Sam rasped.

Azlin froze. His voice sounded like sandpaper rubbing against wood or like some creepy character from a horror movie, but coming from him, it was strangely sexy. God, was there anything about him that didn't turn her on? She'd been watching the scene play out surreptitiously, but at the sound of his voice, she looked directly at him, which was a huge mistake.

He was looking at her with those serious, soulful eyes of his, and they were almost pleading.

Chad and Francine both seemed to be holding their breath, and Azlin realized that she was, too. She released it and looked at Chad, reaching out her hand. "Give me the fucking guitar," she said, masking the fact that her heart was beginning to pound, not out of fear or anger, but from something she couldn't quite identify.

She concentrated on the guitar, not looking at Sam, and began playing the song that Chad had been botching just moments before. She couldn't help but enjoy the familiar rush and satisfaction she got from playing it. The song was sort of upbeat, but it had a deep, resounding undercurrent that came straight from inside her.

Without thinking, she looked up and saw Sam watching her, and in that moment she wasn't thinking about all the reasons why she shouldn't interact with him. He was looking at her with something like awe, and it was greater than any verbal compliment she ever could have received. She smiled at him without really realizing what she was doing.

He returned the smile. His eyes were warm, reminding her of pine trees and cozy fires, and they melted her.

As the song came to an end, she broke the hold his gaze had on her, trying to quell the stupid lust she felt for him and regain the anger she'd had earlier with Francine and Chad. She took in their guilty countenances with one hard look and didn't dare look again at Sam. Handing the guitar back to Chad, she said, "_That's_ how the song is played, as you damn well know."

Chad swallowed and wouldn't meet her eyes.

She looked pointedly again from Chad and then to Francine. "My fucking earphones better be back in my office before my shift begins tomorrow."

**SWDWSWDW**

Sam watched as Azlin moved her cart over to the bathroom and started taking out the supplies she needed to clean it. He didn't take his eyes off of her until she disappeared inside the small room.

An awkward silence had followed after Azlin had made it known she was on to what Francine and Chad were up to, but now Francine had started a nervous chatter, and Chad had begun to pack up his guitar, since it was past time for his shift to start.

Sam, however, was hardly aware of them. He was still in a daze, thinking about Azlin, about the music she had played, about the simple, yet devastating smile she had given him. He had been mesmerized by the graceful way her fingers had manipulated the strings of the guitar, and her darkly-polished nails and the silver thumb ring on her left hand had made her seem edgy and chic. She was a study of contrasts—pale skin and black hair; light-blue eyes and dark brows and lashes; aloof manner and rare, blinding smile. She was artsy and cool and tough, and she was different from any girl he'd ever been attracted to.

His thoughts went to Jessica, his first love, his soul mate. But, God, what his soul had been through since those naive years he'd spent at Stanford with her. Jessica had been all light, the California girl, a dream of the normal, apple-pie life that Sam had wanted so desperately and should have known was out of his reach. He hadn't been aware, then, but his soul had already been blackened by what Azazel had done to him. He should have stayed away from Jessica's innocence, but he hadn't, and she was dead because of him.

But there was no comparing Azlin to Jessica. Where Jessica had been playful and bright—open—and needed protection, Azlin was emotionally-guarded and cold—aloof—and mysterious. He sensed that her soul had been battered like his, but she hadn't lost her humanity, and neither had he, despite everything he'd been through. Azlin tried to bury her humanity, but it was still there, and it broke through in her music. There was nothing apple-pie about Azlin, but Sam didn't want apple-pie anymore. He would never forget Jessica. A part of him would always love her, but for the first time since Jessica's death, he wanted to get to know someone else. He wanted to move on. He wanted a reason to keep going.

Bobby had been right. Azlin's talent was off the charts, and it wasn't odd at all that Sam knew this after listening to just one song. Actually, it wasn't from one song. She had played for him when he was in the coma, and although he couldn't remember it in his conscious mind, on a much deeper level, the memory of her music was there, the haunting sound of it etched in his soul. Hearing her today had awakened an addiction in him, and he wanted more of the music, more of her.

For the first time since Dean and Bobby had left, Sam had forgotten, at least for those few minutes she'd played for him, that he hadn't yet heard from Dean. He wasn't for sure when the twenty-four-hour deadline was up, but it had to be soon, and he had been preoccupied with anticipation and worry until Azlin had made him forget.

His fear for Dean settled back into his mind. He stared at the hospital phone by his bedside table, willing it to ring. He and Dean had agreed that Dean should call him via the nurses' station, and they could transfer the call to the phone on his bedside table. Since Sam still didn't have the dexterity to work his cell phone, he wouldn't have been able to answer it if he'd been alone in his room. If whatever nurse was on duty knew that Dean was calling, he or she could help Sam answer the phone.

Chad had his guitar case slung over his shoulder. "You two need help with anything before I go?"

Francine shook her head. "No, hon." She shared a sheepish look with Chad and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Chad's mouth tightened.

Sam suppressed a smile and pretended not to notice.

Chad looked at Sam. "I'll check on you a little later, dude."

He and Chad had become sort of friends. He saw a lot of the rainbow-haired orderly and liked the way Chad was so matter-of-fact about everything. Chad made Sam feel more normal and less like an invalid, less coddled, and he would sometimes come just to shoot the shit during slow times in his shift. Sam suspected Dean had probably had something to do with that, but he appreciated the company in the evenings when he was bored just the same.

Francine had unhooked the food bag and had begun massaging and then stretching Sam's leg. At least that was one good thing about his predicament—he got full-body massages several times a day—although he much preferred the female nurses to Karl and Hack.

The call speaker on the bed panel vibrated a little, and a tinny voice from one of the other evening nurses said, "Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam rasped.

"Call from Dean, honey. You need help?"

Sam's heart began to pound, and he looked at Francine.

Francine was already skirting her way around to the phone. "Patch it through, Joyce. I'm here."

"All right," said Joyce. "Hold on a sec."

Almost instantly, the phone by Sam's bed rang two short rings, and Francine picked it up. "Hello, Dean. 'Bout damn time you called. I'm beginning to think you're cheatin' on me, sugar." There was a pause, and then Francine laughed. "Sure, hon. He's right here." She handed the phone receiver to Sam's left hand.

"Dean?" Sam rasped.

"_Sammy?" _Dean's voice returned. _"Dude, you were right. It wasn't like a Clint Eastwood movie. The whiskey tasted like gasoline, and the saloon girls had cold sores_."

Sam croaked out a laugh, flooded with relief to hear Dean's voice.

Seeing that his arm was getting shaky from holding the phone with no support, Francine put the extra pillow that always seemed to be somewhere nearby under his elbow and reclined the head of his bed back a little bit so his arm would be closer to the mattress. Then she slipped out of the room, giving Sam some privacy to talk.

As Francine, left, though, Azlin came out of the bathroom and put her cleaning supplies back on the cart. She never gave Sam a second glance as she made her way to the door of his room, but Sam watched her leave, momentarily distracted from Dean's story.

**SWDWSWDW**

Another month had gone by since Dean and Bobby had left, and Sam's hard work had paid off. He'd pushed himself beyond his limits every therapy session, and Karl usually scolded him into backing off, worried that Sam would strain a muscle. Karl had warned him, too, that so much new activity for his unconditioned muscles could cause painful cramping, and Sam had hidden the fact that Karl had been right.

So far, Sam hadn't experienced cramps in front of anyone, at least none that he couldn't hide, and he didn't want Karl to know because he didn't want to have to ease up on the therapy. He wanted his independence back, and if a few cramps were the price he had to pay, it was worth it. Sometimes, he experienced them a few hours after his last therapy session, but he got them more often at night, and they had been interrupting his sleep a bit. Still, it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

The feeding tube, finally, was a thing of the past. He'd gone cold-turkey—literally—for two weeks, eating solids like turkey and mashed potatoes and, in addition, some of the mush that he'd started out eating. The tube had still been there during this trial period, but it hadn't been used. Although his appetite still sucked, the nausea had abated, and he'd managed to eat enough during those two weeks to convince Dr. Davis to remove the tube, although the doctor had done it reluctantly. He'd warned Sam that he still needed to eat more, and if his intake fell off even a fraction, he would reinsert the tube.

Sam could lift his arms now and had started lifting weights. Okay. So they were really light weights, but he was lifting them just the same. He had bumped up another level on the Thera-band balls and could feed himself awkwardly with his left hand and even more awkwardly with his right. He'd even fired up the new iPad and tried to do some research for Dean and Bobby, although it was slow going. Typing still wasn't fun, but, with effort, he could at least type a few words into Google.

He could sit in a chair, now, for a few minutes at a time—at least long enough to ride in the wheelchair from his room to the PT area, and he could turn himself over, although both feats made him feel like he'd just ridden a leg of the Tour de France. Now that he was moving more and was a little stronger, he didn't mind the aquatics sessions anymore. The water eased the pressure of gravity, and he enjoyed the freedom of movement he had now that Karl didn't have to constantly hold him. He could hold on to a float and weakly kick his legs and propel himself around, although, again, he would be exhausted after only a few minutes. The good news was that everything was starting to move again. The not so good news was that he had no strength or stamina, but he was determined to remedy that.

He spoke with either Bobby or Dean almost every day, and after helping them with a bit of research, he understood how serious things were with the whole Eve thing and why they'd had to leave. With Dean back from the Wild West and relatively safe—at least, as safe as Dean could ever be in their line of work—there was something else Sam was obsessed with besides his therapy. He couldn't get Azlin off his mind.

She ignored him every time she came to his room to clean, and she always came when he was eating dinner and Francine was watching him like a mother hen to make sure he ate enough. She never came when he was alone, and he suspected that it was on purpose. As distant and detached as she seemed to be, the few times he'd caught her eye, he'd felt an attraction that he'd swear wasn't one-sided. There was something about the way she tensed, the way her sky-blue eyes darkened just a fraction, that told him she wasn't all marble and ice.

He'd wanted to be alone with her but hadn't figured out a way until yesterday. It was simple, really, and he was surprised he hadn't thought of it before. Since Azlin usually came to his room when her shift first started at six, he'd asked Francine yesterday if she could wait and not bring his dinner until closer to seven, saying that six was too early and that his appetite would be better if they waited until a little later. Francine, who was all for anything that might boost his appetite, had been willing to comply.

He was sitting in his bed absently working his hands with the Thera balls, frequently glancing at the clock on the wall. He thought about turning the TV on but knew he was too distracted to pay attention to anything.

A little after six, there was a knock on the closed door. "Housekeeping."

"Come in." His voice was better but still not back to normal, and he strained to be heard.

A second or two went by, and he wondered if she had heard him. "Come in," he tried to yell louder.

The door opened, and Azlin pushed the cart laden with cleaning supplies into the room, her earbuds loudly in place. Her eyes quickly scanned the room—never, of course, resting on him—and her mouth tightened upon realizing that he was the only person in the room.

Sam kept watching her, liking the confident way she moved, liking the way her very short hair made her look more feminine instead of having the opposite effect of making her look boyish. When her back was to him, he got a good look at the small blue star tattooed on the back of her neck and wondered what it would feel like to brush his lips over it, imagined the wisps of pleasure he could make her feel by kissing her there.

Wanting to get her attention, he waited until she began dust-mopping near him and "accidentally" knocked his Thera ball off the bed. The gel-filled ball plopped onto the floor next to his bed, hardly rolling.

Without missing a beat or meeting his eyes, Azlin picked it up and set it next to his hand on the mattress.

Sam continued to watch her, knowing he was rudely staring at her and amused that she still completely ignored him, although she had to be feeling his eyes on her.

As she made her way near the the other side of his bed, he knocked the other ball off.

She paused for a second this time, and then, again, she picked it up for him and set it by his hand.

He smiled at her in thanks, but she never met his eyes and didn't acknowledge it. She was a tough nut to crack, but he hadn't been called stubborn in the past for no reason. He could be persistent, too. He knocked the ball off the bed a third time.

Still dust-mopping the floor, she stopped and leaned the mop against a chair and paused the iPod. With deliberate movements, she picked up the ball and set it next to his hand again, but instead of releasing the ball, she held onto it, her eyes trained on him. "Do I look like fucking Lassie to you?"

"Uh, no." He looked up at her and tried to appear innocent, but his lips twitched, and he held in a smile. "Sorry," he said, but he didn't make too much of an effort to sound sincere.

She tried to maintain her austerity, but the quirking of her lips and two faint dimples gave her away.

He held her eyes for a second, and when he sensed she was about to retreat, he said, "So, Bobby told me what you did for me, about the music." He paused, feeling his next words would be inadequate but not having anything better. "Thank you."

She modestly looked away and then shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

Sam was incredulous. "You're kidding, right?"

The quirking of her lips turned into an almost-smile, and she looked down and pressed her lips together as though trying to hide it. When she met his eyes again, the humor was still there. She seemed about to say something, but then her face shuttered and she began to turn away.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, feeling an instant heat ignite inside him at the touch of her skin. "Azlin?" He waited for her to look at him, but she didn't. He trudged on anyway. "Would you, uh, play for me again?" His voice, still gravelly, was even huskier.

She froze, her body tensing at his touch, her hand curling into a fist. Her face was still turned a little away from him. "I—no." She shook her head as if trying to convince not only him, but herself.

He searched her face, willing her to look at him. "Please?"

She closed her eyes and gulped, but she didn't say no.

He could feel she was close to giving in when, suddenly, an excruciating pain in his right leg stole his breath. He scrunched his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, the tide of agony overwhelming.

Azlin gave a startled cry.

He forced his eyes open and realized he still held her wrist in his now crushing grip. He immediately let go.

She was staring at him with a mixture of fear and concern.

"Fuck," he ground out. He wasn't going to be able to hide this one.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: Remember this is AU, so I'm deliberately being vague about the events from canon. Just assume that whatever happens, Dean and Bobby accomplish it without Sam. What? Dean could do it. Dean's a resourceful hero, and he's still got Bobby's help! **_


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: I'm leaving for vacation soon, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again. I hope you guys are still liking it enough to stick around for Chapter 12. Shouldn't be more than two weeks. Things should start heating up a bit more, so don't give up on me. Also, here's a shout out to all you lovely readers in Scotland and London. I'll be in your neck of the woods for the next ten days! Love, Liz **_

**Chapter 11**

Azlin rubbed at her mottled wrist where Sam had gripped it, imprints from his long fingers still visible. His hand, warm and gentle at first, had suddenly clamped down on her wrist like a vise before he abruptly let go in reaction to her involuntary cry of pain. He hadn't hurt her on purpose. Something was wrong. He was hurting.

"S-Sorry," he stuttered, writhing.

Azlin tried not to panic at the sheer agony that was written all over his drawn face. The surprising strength of his grip on her wrist had been a testament to how much pain he was in. She reached for the call button to summon a nurse.

He caught her wrist again, much weaker this time. "No. Don't." His teeth clenched.

"Sam, what's wrong? You have to let me call someone!"

He shook his head, wincing. "Just a...cramp. 'S okay."

"It's not okay! You're clearly hurting. Let me get help."

He shook his head again, his eyes closing tight. "Could you just..." He trailed off, sounding almost like he didn't want to impose, like he was embarrassed.

"Could I what, Sam?" she prompted with urgency, hating to see him in pain, wanting to do anything to make it stop. "What do you want me to do? It's okay. Just tell me."

His breath hitched, and he forced his eyes open. "My leg. Could you—ah!" he gasped, and his eyes slammed shut again.

She nodded, her heart racing. "Just tell me what to do!"

He let go of her wrist, his forehead creased. "Right calf," he gritted out hoarsely.

She pulled the covers off of his legs and was shocked at the unnatural tension in his right leg and the way his right foot was drawn down to a point. Not sure exactly what to do, she pulled up the cotton pant leg of his dark-gray pajama pants and began kneading and working at the rock-hard ball that was supposed to be his calf muscle. It didn't seem to be helping.

A gasp of pain escaped from him, although he was obviously trying to hold it in.

She reached for his contorted foot and tried bending it back to a more natural position.

"Guh," he grunted between panting breaths, his face still lined with pain.

"Is this better or worse?" she said, trying to stay calm.

"Better," he croaked.

With one hand, she bent his foot a little more in order to stretch the calf and, with the other hand, began massaging the clenched muscle again.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tension started to fade from his body, the hard planes of his face beginning to relax.

She could feel his calf muscle releasing, but kept massaging just to be sure the pain had abated. The crisis coming to an end, Azlin became acutely aware of the weight of his leg resting in her hand and the feel of the arch of his foot in her other hand as she massaged both areas, his brown skin next to her white, the pleasant warmth of him, the coarse hairs on his leg tickling the palm of her hand. His legs were long, and she wondered how tall he would be if he were standing. He was still too thin, but he had begun to fill out a little, his muscles slowly but surely starting to rebound.

His face was completely relaxed now, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She could feel her body beginning to react to the feel of him, a tightness in the pit of her stomach. She stopped the massage and stepped back a little.

He cocked one eye open and gave a tired smile, dimples showing.

She felt a skip in her pulse and fought to ignore it. "You want to tell me what just happened?"

He opened the other eye and held her gaze. "You were massaging my leg."

She rolled her eyes. "Before that."

He looked away from her. "It was just a cramp."

"Yeah. Like, a fucking fifteen-minute, horrendous, agonizing, foot-contorting cramp. Was that the first time?"

He hesitated and sighed before turning his attention back to her. "No."

"Have you told anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He worked his neck from side to side as if it were stiff. "Look, it's not a big deal."

"Sam, _that_ was a big deal. I'm sure there's something Dr. Davis could prescribe to help prevent it or at least help with the pain. Why would you want to experience that again if you don't have to?"

"So you can give me another massage?"

She felt a familiar heat flare within her. He was flirting with her, and she had to force herself to focus. "I'm serious, Sam."

"So am I."

"I'm telling Francine."

He rolled his eyes. "That one was...worse than normal. They're usually not that bad."

"All the more reason you should tell someone. What if they're starting to escalate?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "You care, Azlin?"

Oh, he was good. "Yeah. I care," she said. "I wouldn't let my horse suffer like that." She took in his long, skinny legs and arms. "Or a giraffe, either."

He leaned his head back and gave a husky laugh, his dark-brown hair falling away from his face. Then, sobering a bit, he queried, "You have a horse?"

Azlin released an exasperated breath and ignored his question. "I have to tell someone about your cramping, Sam. If I don't, and it's something more serious, that opens up the rehab center to a huge liability."

He studied her with his intelligent, evergreen eyes. "_You_ are worried about liability?"

Shit. She shouldn't have said that. He was too good at coaxing her into revealing little tidbits about herself that were none of his business. "What's the big secret, Sam? Either you tell, or I will."

He sighed. "Look, it's just because my muscles are out of condition. All the new activity from the therapy sessions is making them fatigued, and sometimes it causes a Charlie horse. Karl warned me about this, and it's perfectly normal."

"Okay. Are you going to tell Karl about this one, that it was worse than usual?"

His brows drew together slightly, and he looked kind of guilty. "No."

There was something he wasn't telling her. "You haven't told Karl about any of this, have you?"

He didn't answer.

"Why, Sam?"

His jaw tightened in that trademark way of his, and he looked intense. "Because, Azlin," he said, his tone acerbic and defiant, "I'm tired of lying in this bed. I want to be able to use the damn bathroom and take a real shower without someone helping me. I want my right hand to work properly so that I don't have the table manners of a three-year-old. I want to be able to sit in a chair for more than fifteen minutes without feeling like I've run a marathon. I want to be able to get dressed by myself in something other than pajamas. I want to _run_, but even walking right now would be stellar, or how about just standing? I want to be tall again. I'm tired of looking up at people from a bed or a wheelchair." His eyes pierced into her. "If I tell Karl about the cramps, he won't let me push as hard during my therapy sessions, and my rehab will take even longer than it's already going to. I'm not gonna let that happen. I'm _not_ gonna back off."

His words hung in the air, and she stood there a moment, her heart aching for him. He never complained, at least not that she had seen, never let on just how difficult things really were for him, and she wanted to comfort him in some way, ease his frustration. Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze.

He closed his eyes, and some of the intensity of before left his features.

She exhaled a deep breath, aware of their hands touching, not ready to let go just yet. "Okay. I get it. Your life sucks, and you want to fix it. But what if the cramps are more serious than you think? What if they end up hindering your recovery in the long-run?"

He looked up at her, eyes sincere, and it was his turn to squeeze her hand with reassurance. "It's just muscle cramps," he said in his husky, gravelly voice. "I promise, they're not a big deal."

Azlin suddenly found it hard to comprehend what he said, distracted by the broad point of his nose, the way his brow creased in that serious way he had, the way his mouth and lips moved. His dimples showed almost all the time—not just when he smiled, but when he talked or moved his mouth in any way, and she was fascinated by their various depths.

She came back to herself and almost groaned out loud, catching herself just in time. _Fuck. _She was in big trouble if she was now contemplating the finer nuances of his dimples. She was so screwed.

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

Azlin jerked her hand away from his as if she'd been burned.

Sam's mouth curved in amusement, but his eyes were darker with something more intense.

Francine was peeking her head in the open door. "Are you hungry yet, hon?" she said to Sam.

Sam looked wary. "You bring something other than turkey?"

Francine winked and nodded as she came into the room carrying a tray of food. "I told the dietician you were gonna start gobbling like a tom soon if they didn't give you something besides turkey eight different ways."

He smiled. "Then I'm starving."

Francine glanced at Azlin, taking in the fact that her earphones weren't on and she was standing by Sam's bed. "Hey, sugar. How are you?"

Azlin didn't answer. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and looked at Sam.

He was giving her a more subtle version of that soulful look of his, imploring her to keep quiet.

Azlin hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something to Francine, but, God, that look of his. It made Azlin want to give him anything he asked for. She would jump off a fucking cliff for him. Reluctantly, she decided to table the issue—for now.

She looked at Francine and said flatly, "I'm fine. Thanks." Then she turned her back to both of them and grabbed the dust mop that was still leaning against the chair. She started mopping, discouraging any further conversation.

By the time Azlin was finished with her work in Sam's room and pushing her cart toward the door, she heard Francine exclaim, "My stars, Sam! That's the best I've seen you eat yet. You just about licked the platter clean."

He cleared his throat and gave an embarrassed half-laugh. "Uh, yeah."

"Having something other than turkey did improve your appetite. Who'd a thunk it?" she asked, voice laced with sarcasm, as if someone should have figured that out a lot sooner. "I think it helped moving your suppertime 'til later, too. You were right about that."

Azlin froze. Her back was to them, but she could feel Sam's eyes on her, daring her to turn around. So that's why he'd been alone when she'd come in. He'd asked to have his dinner brought in later, and the reason had nothing to do with his appetite.

**SWDWSWDW**

Two days later, Azlin awoke groggily on her sofa with the usual morning breath and a jones for caffeine. She ran her fingers through her short hair in an attempt to tame some of the more errant strands. She didn't have a mirror in the office but could feel it was still sticking up in some places and flattened in others. She didn't care.

She half folded her blanket and threw it on top of her pillow. It was just after nine in the morning, and she was going to get her usual hot, Earl Grey tea from the cafeteria and then go to her home to shower and maybe work on some music before attending to her daily routine. She grabbed her iPod from the desk and made her way out the door, her back turned to Sam's room across the hall. As she was shutting her door, she heard Sam's hoarse voice behind her say, "Azlin?"

She froze for a fraction of a second, her stomach doing a cartwheel, and then turned to see Sam sitting in a wheelchair wearing navy swim trunks and a white t-shirt, rehab issue flip-flops on his feet, Karl pushing. A large, fluffy, white towel was sitting in his lap. His long hair was a little mussed, and he looked tired. He also, of course, looked totally hot. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see her, dimples present and accounted for. "What are you doing here this early?" he asked.

She glanced up at Karl, whose face was impassive, except for the bland, polite smile he gave her.

Azlin knew everyone at the rehab center thought she was strange for sleeping there, but, of course, that was just one of many things that made her strange. She knew everyone also knew to wisely stay out of her business, and, obviously, no one had told Sam that she slept there, not even Dean. Still, she was surprised this hadn't happened earlier, and she swallowed, a little embarrassed. She didn't want Sam to think she was weird, and she was startled to realize she actually gave a fuck what someone else thought of her. She cleared her throat, hoping her morning breath wasn't wafting over to him. "I, um, just got up."

Sam's eyebrows drew together in a faint frown. "So, you came here?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Fuck it. She shouldn't care what he thought. "I sleep here. That is my office," she indicated the room behind her with a jerk of her thumb, hitch-hiker style, "and I sleep on a sofa in there."

He nodded his head slowly, still frowning, as though trying to understand. "Oh." He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand.

She was struck again by how tired he looked.

He focused on her again, and she could see the questions forming in his mind.

She wasn't going to make it easy for him. She was sure someone would eventually fill him in on how fucked up she really was, but she didn't want to be there when they did. "I've got to go," she said, and walked away before he could ask anything more.

**SWDWSWDW**

Sam was exhausted from the aquatics session with Karl—and from not sleeping at night. The muscle cramps were getting worse, but he was convinced that, once his muscles were more conditioned, the cramps would go away. He just needed to keep pushing. He knew his limits, and he wasn't going to let anyone tell him what was best for his recovery. He'd been an expert at honing his body into a lethal weapon before, and he would do it again.

Although the cramps were more intense—much more—he'd still managed to hide them, except for that time with Azlin, of course. So far, she hadn't said anything, and he was grateful. He felt bad about putting her in an awkward position, but he didn't see a way around it.

He smiled at the memory of the way she'd looked earlier in the hallway, pixie hair spiked in places and eyes puffy from sleep, wearing her work clothes from the night before. She'd looked cute and rumpled, and he had been surprised to find out that she slept in what he'd thought of as a supply closet right across the hall from his room. He liked the thought that she was so close to him.

The big question, though, was why. Was it all she could afford? What did she do during the day when she wasn't here? Where did she shower, eat, and do things like laundry? The more he learned about her, the more questions he had. He'd tried to milk Francine and Chad—and even the stoic Karl this morning—for information about her, but they were surprisingly either vague or downright tight-lipped where Azlin was concerned. It was a little weird, a little suspicious, and Sam was an expert on things weird and suspicious. It was time for a little research on Azlin and on the rehab center itself. He had a gut feeling there was maybe more to both than met the eye.

He eyed the iPad on the overbed table. All he had to do was lean forward a couple of inches, and he'd be able to pull the table closer. Then, of course, he'd have to expend the effort to actually turn the iPad on and type. He'd done it before, but, right now, the simple tasks were beyond him. He was so tired, and his arms felt heavy and shaky, like they were weighted down by three hundred pounds of Jell-O. As badly as he wanted to, his research would have to wait. He quit fighting his exhaustion and let his eyes close. The iPad would still be there after a much-needed nap.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin's shift was done, and she had just finished up the last of her paperwork. She was sitting at her desk, drumming her pen absently against the scarred wood of the desktop. Since she'd seen Sam in the hallway, the last couple of evenings she'd noticed how exhausted he looked when she went into his room to clean. He was always a little tired from the day's exertion, but this went way beyond that. He was almost listless, like he could hardly keep his eyes open or lift a fork to eat. Azlin had seen concern on Francine's face and listened to her coax and fuss at Sam to eat, even threatening him with the feeding tube, and finally resorting to feeding him herself when Sam didn't protest. Azlin felt guilty for not saying anything about the cramp she had witnessed. If he didn't look any better tomorrow, she was spilling the beans—wounded-puppy eyes or no.

She looked at the digital clock. 2:04 am. She was tempted to go look in on him, but it would be really embarrassing if she woke him up or he happened to be awake already. How would she explain it? Besides, Francine had probably just checked on him before her shift ended anyway.

Azlin tapped her pen again and looked at her "bed." She wasn't that sleepy, hadn't unwound yet. It couldn't hurt just to go listen by his door, could it?

She walked across the hall and stood by his door, feeling like a pathetic, lovesick teenager instead of a 32-year-old woman and prayed no one appeared in the empty hallway and caught her. She pressed her ear as close to where the closed door met the doorjamb as she could and heard nothing. Okay. Good. No harm done. Now she could sleep.

And if she'd pulled away a split second sooner, she wouldn't have heard the sharp, muffled groan of pain coming from inside, but she hadn't pulled away in time, and her gut clenched at hearing Sam's distress. Adrenaline kicking in, she opened the door and made her way through the dark room to Sam's bedside. He was lying on his right side, face turned into his pillow, blanket pulled up over his shoulders. If she hadn't heard him seconds earlier and didn't now see the tension emanating from his body, she might have believed he was asleep, but she knew better.

Her body was blocking the light that spilled in from the hallway through the mostly open door, and she shifted her position so it could illuminate him. She touched his rigid shoulder. "Sam, are are you cramping?"

He turned his head a little away from his pillow, one visible eye opening. "You make it sound," he winced, "like I have PMS."

She pressed her lips together to hold in a smile. "Let me see. Is it your leg?"

He closed his eye. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Let me see."

His eye opened again, and his one visible dimple deepened. "Are you gonna give me another massage?"

"Only if—"

"Guh!" Sam panted and clenched his teeth, clamping his eye shut, his pain clearly getting worse.

Azlin's pulse kicked into overdrive, and she yanked the covers off of him, exposing his legs, but was surprised to see that they looked normal. Momentarily perplexed, she finally looked up the length of his long body and noticed his left hand was cradling his right wrist, and his right hand was bent forward at an unnatural angle, fingers painfully contorted. "Oh, God, Sam."

She quickly grabbed his right arm and started massaging the underside of his arm and wrist with one hand while gently pressing his hand back and straightening out his fingers with the other.

Sam buried his head in his pillow, his breathing ragged and pained, his good hand white-knuckling the bed blanket.

After what seemed like an inordinately cruel amount of time, the muscles and tendons began to relax, and Sam's rigid posture deflated. As she had before, she continued the massage, kneading his palm, wrist, and fingers.

His breathing slowed and evened out, and his head rested more comfortably on the pillow, his face more relaxed.

She still held his long, tapered fingers in her hand, knowing she would miss the feel and warmth of him when she let go. Finally, she gently released him, her heart heavy with trepidation. She was going to have to tell someone about this and hated the thought that she was somehow betraying him, even if it was for his own good.

He rolled himself more to his back, wincing with exhaustion from the effort, and sighed. "You're going to tell, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Soulful eyes. "Please. Don't."

"I have to, Sam."

His jaw tightened. "Look, I'll back off a little bit, won't push as hard."

"You're full of shit."

He gave a half-laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. I am. But you know what? You and everyone else around here seem to forget that it's my goddamn body. _I'm _the one that should get to decide what happens to it."

"Not if you're an idiot."

He pressed his lips together and blew out a frustrated breath through his nose. "You don't know what it's like. You—"

"Spare me the sob story. You're exhausted, Sam, because these fucking cramps are keeping you up at night. It's affecting your appetite. You're too tired to pick up a damn fork to feed yourself." She shook her head. "I can't believe Karl hasn't figured out that you look like death warmed over, that he hasn't already cut back on your therapy. How could he not have noticed?"

He gave her a wan smile. "I'm touched _you've_ noticed."

"How many times a night are you having them?" she pressed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, looking weary to the bone.

She snorted. "You're so exhausted you can't even stay awake right now."

He looked at her with droopy eyes. "It's past two in the morning, Azlin. What do you expect?"

"How many?"

He set his jaw stubbornly, refusing to answer.

"Going without sleep isn't going to help you, Sam. You need sleep to heal."

His eyes widened. "I was asleep for seven months, Azlin!" he croaked. "That's why I'm in this mess."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not the same thing, and you know it." She was resolved. "Sorry. I'm calling someone _now_. Maybe they can give you something to help you sleep the rest of the night." She reached for the call button.

He grabbed her wrist with his left hand to stop her, and his voice was low and soft. "Why are you here, Azlin? You're not a frigging janitor."

He was trying to distract her, and it had worked. It obviously hadn't taken him long to find out about her, but how much did he know? Not that it really mattered. Her heart beat faster, and she yanked her wrist from his grasp. _Two could play at this game_, she thought angrily. "What about you, Coma Boy? Why are _you _here? And while you're at it, why don't you tell me your real name?"

His face became unreadable. "My name is Sam Blackmore," he said evenly.

"What was so fucking traumatic that you fell into a coma for seven months?"

"I don't remember."

She laughed without mirth. "Oh, that's convenient. Are you a criminal?"

"No." He said it with a sad smile, and his eyes looked a thousand years old.

She reached for the call button again and gave him a hard look, silently daring him to try to stop her.

He closed his eyes but was so tense, like he was poised to spring, that she thought he might try for another grab.

When he didn't, she pushed the button.

"Yes?" a tinny voice said through the call speaker.

"Evelyn?"

"That you, Azlin?" The nurse sounded surprised.

"Yeah." Azlin swallowed. She hated doing this. "Sam—Sam's having severe muscle cramps. He's having trouble sleeping."

Sam's eyes opened, fiercely green and smoldering with fury, and his face hardened to stone.

"Oh, my goodness. All right, hon," said Evelyn's voice. "I'll be right in."

"Thanks," said Azlin numbly. She waited for the grandmotherly nurse to arrive, not knowing what to do with her hands, shifting on her feet, pacing a little, wishing Sam would say something, but he wouldn't look at her.

When Evelyn came in, Azlin told her everything she knew about Sam's muscle cramps.

If the nurse wondered why Azlin was in Sam's room at two-thirty in the morning, she didn't let it show.

Azlin then watched as Evelyn turned on the lights that illuminated Sam's bed and questioned him, Azlin warning him the whole time with her eyes that his answers better be truthful.

Sam was broody and answered in one-word answers.

"All right, sweetie." Evelyn patted Sam's shoulder. "Dr. Patterson is on call tonight. I'm going to call him for instructions, and then we'll see what we can do to get you some relief."

After Evelyn left, the silence in the room was stifling. Sam's eyes were closed again, and he seemed beyond tired, but Azlin knew by the iron set of his jaw that he was also livid. She felt a sick feeling of guilt for betraying him, even if it had been for his own good, and she hated the thought that he was so mad at her. "Sam—"

"You should mind your own damn business." His tone was cruel. "You're fucked up enough as it is without getting into mine."

She felt a physical pain in her chest and labored to inhale a breath through her constricted throat, tears stinging her eyes. The words weren't anything she hadn't said herself before, but coming from him, they were devastating. She swallowed hard, struggling to control the bitter ache, and made her voice strong. "Go to hell," she said, and turned to leave.

She heard a sardonic laugh behind her. "Sorry," he rasped. "Already been."

**SWDWSWDW**

Castiel, eerily silent and still in the dark room, stood and watched Sam sleep.

Sam seemed uneasy, although he slept deeply, as though drugged.

Castiel let his hand hover over Sam's heart and felt many emotions emanating from it—anger, hurt, frustration—but not evil. The evil he'd always sensed buried in Sam was no longer there.

Castiel felt a strange, powerful tightening in his stomach and felt almost ill. He'd hoped irrationally that the evil would still be there. It would have made what he was contemplating more justified. It would have made him feel less...despicable.

But certain regrettable things were now required of him. He was at war.

_**TBC**_

**_A/N: The last line of the chapter was taken almost directly from something Castiel said in one of the episodes. I borrowed it._**


	12. Chapter 12

**_A/N: Hey all, had a great trip, but haven't slept hardly at all for two weeks, so I hope this chapter is coherent. I'm sure my sleep-deprived brain has missed some mistakes, so I apologize for any typos. Also, except for the Arctic Monkeys, all the rest of the bands are fictional in this Chapter, as are the club the Love Light and the music festival Pharm Fest. Any similarities to real bands, venues, oranizations, and festivals is not intentional, and no money is being made. Thanks for sticking with the story, and please review!_**

**Chapter 12**

Sam was brooding, and he knew it. It was a nice, sunny day. Birds were chirping, bees were buzzing, and there was a pleasant breeze, but none of it did a thing to improve Sam's mood. In fact, he hardly even noticed his surroundings.

Chad was pushing Sam in the wheelchair out on the park-like grounds of the rehab center. Karl was on vacation, so Chad was filling in and making up some hours by working a double shift, since his band had been playing a lot of Friday-night gigs and he'd been taking Friday afternoons off to drive to Dallas.

Chad had tried a few times to engage Sam in conversation, but Sam only answered in one-syllable words, distracted by his thoughts. Three months had passed since Azlin had even _looked_ at him, and it was driving him crazy. Any progress he'd made in breaking the ice between them was crushed the night he'd been such a dick. He'd told her to mind her own damn business, and, by God, that's exactly what she'd done. She was more aloof and detached with him than ever.

He wanted desperately to apologize to her but had yet to even get past her blaring earbuds. No matter what he did to try to get her attention, she ignored him, and she made damn sure that he was never alone before she came in to clean his room.

She was no longer sleeping across the hall from him, hadn't since that night. It had been big news along the rehab center's grapevine. For years, Azlin had slept there, and then, all of a sudden, she just stopped. Everyone wondered why, of course, except Sam.

He felt terrible for what he'd said to her. Her scars obviously ran deep, and he'd been vicious and out of line, especially knowing what he knew about her past and, more importantly, what he didn't know. He couldn't believe he'd actually told her she was fucked up. He had been furious with her, and he'd lashed out because he was exhausted and wasn't thinking rationally, but that was no excuse. Azlin had a thick skin, but she still had feelings, no matter how hard she tried not to, and he felt like a complete douche bag for hurting her.

As he had known would happen, Karl had forced him to back off on the therapy. Sam's therapy ceased altogether for an entire week after Azlin spilled his secret about the cramps, and he was forced to rest his muscles. During that week, Dr. Davis prescribed ibuprofen for the pain and heat and ice packs to be alternately applied to Sam's various muscles every few hours to help prevent the cramping. Also, his legs were kept elevated on pillows most of the day, which made him feel like a total invalid and pissed him off. He'd also begun a regimen of vitamins. There were so many of them, he had to keep them in a daily pill organizer like some old lady.

He'd tried to do exercises secretly on his own as he stewed in anger over Azlin's perceived treachery, but without Karl's help, his attempts had been pretty much futile. At the end of the week of forced rest, the cramps were reduced dramatically and were less severe when he did have one, and he was able to sleep most of the night without interruption. His appetite improved, he grew stronger, and he felt better.

It hadn't taken long, once he started to feel better, for his anger with Azlin to fade. He realized she had only exposed his secret out of concern for him, and he had been a jackass in return.

"Ready, dude?" Chad broke into Sam's thoughts.

"Yeah," said Sam, and he realized with surprise that his voice felt pretty much back to normal. He wondered how he hadn't noticed it before now. It had been so gradual he hadn't been aware of it.

"All right. How many steps are you up to?"

"Four."

"Dude, that's awesome."

Sam had the urge to roll his eyes, but he knew Chad was only trying to be encouraging, so he refrained. Sam could walk a few steps now, but the effort was monumental. His strength and stamina still left a lot to be desired, and the baby steps—literally—that he had to take felt like climbing Mt. Everest. He had to keep reminding himself that he was making progress, that if he kept plodding along, maybe he'd wake up one day and realize he could walk without effort, the same way he'd realized today that his voice had finally returned to normal.

Chad stopped the wheelchair a few feet from a park bench and crouched down to eye level with Sam, Chad's fire-engine-red hair even brighter in the sun. "All right, dude. That bench is about four steps from where you are. You think you can do it?"

"Yeah," Sam answered with more confidence than he felt. The bench seemed like it was a mile away, but he would never admit that.

Chad helped Sam into a wobbly stand and then gripped Sam's elbow and forearm. "Okay. I'm just gonna hold your arm a bit to steady you. You're gonna do all the work. Don't worry, though. I'll catch you before you bust your ass."

"Thanks," said Sam wryly. He felt a little lightheaded at the sudden change in elevation to a stand, but he forced himself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, legs shaky. He slowly made it to the bench, and Chad helped him ease into a sitting position to rest a minute before making the trek back to the wheelchair.

Sam was weak from the effort, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. He was disgusted that he was actually out of breath from taking four little steps, and he wiped a light sheen of sweat from his face with his hands. Everyone kept saying what a miracle it was that he was making such rapid progress, but it would never be fast enough for him. Five months, total, of therapy, and he could take four measly steps. He was impatient and frustrated.

Chad clapped him on the back. "Dude, that was—oh, hey, Azlin! What are you doing here?"

Sam's head snapped up to see Azlin standing several feet from them on the sidewalk. His blood surged and his chest tightened at the sight of her. He tried to even out his breathing so he wouldn't look so winded, but his body wasn't cooperating very well.

"Had a, um, meeting with Sharon," she said. Her vivid eyes were locked solely on Chad.

As usual, she completely ignored Sam, but this time maybe that was a good thing. He hoped she hadn't seen his pathetic little stroll. She gave no indication that she had. He watched for her to at least glance at him, ready to make eye contact with her if the chance arose.

She was wearing a tight, olive-green Pixies t-shirt, skinny jeans that were kind of bleached out or paint-splattered in some places, and her usual dark-gray Converse sneakers. Her short black hair shone in the sun, and the tiny ring glinting in her eyebrow accentuated the brow's arch. He'd never seen her in such fitted clothing before, and the curvy shape of her slender body, the outline of her breasts, caused his heart to beat even faster. Why had he been such an idiot? He had been making progress with her, however precarious it had been, and he'd screwed it up.

"So, it's Thursday, Azlin," said Chad. "Bandwagon's leaving tomorrow afternoon if you want to play with us in Denton at The Love Light. We could always use an extra guitarist—or keyboardist or oboe player or whatever instrument you might want to deign to play."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I already told you, I'm not gonna play in your band. Besides, I still have to work tomorrow, remember?"

Chad's lips tightened, and he made a frustrated noise of protest. "What about Saturday, then?" he persisted. "We're opening for Surge Master at a club in Dallas." Before she could deny him, he added, "You don't have to play. Just go hang out and watch."

She was silent a moment, her gaze focused thoughtfully on Chad. "Not this weekend," she said, "but what do you have scheduled for next weekend? I mean, would you guys like to play Pharm Fest?"

Chad's eyes widened. "Seriously? How? Won't it be too late to get on the bill? We don't have any OKC connections."

"I have an old...friend there who's a bigwig in the music scene. He owes me a favor."

"You get us in the lineup, we'll be there. We have another gig scheduled at the Love Light, but we can cancel."

"All right. I'll see what I can get worked out, then." She turned to go.

"You gonna play with us if you can get us in?" asked Chad, stalling her.

"For the five-billionth time, _no_," she said with finality and a hint of exasperation, "but I'll go along for the ride. After I talk to my friend Justin, I'll let you know the details."

"Are you talking about Justin Wieland?"

She nodded.

Chad pumped a fist. "Holy shit! If he's your friend, we're in for sure."

There was a faint quirk of her lips, the ghost of dimples. "Maybe. I'll talk to you later."

Chad gave her a two-fingered wave. "Later."

Sam watched her walk toward the parking lot, irritated that she hadn't once acknowledged his presence, not even a flick of an eye in his direction. When she was out of his sight, he looked up at Chad, squinting a little in the sun. "What's Pharm Fest?"

Chad sat next to him on the bench. "Dude, it's a music festival that they have every year in Brick Town. It's in the old warehouse area of downtown Oklahoma City that sort of went through a revival. A lot of old buildings got restored and turned into restaurants and clubs and shit."

Sam nodded.

"Justin Wieland started Pharm Fest to help old farmers pay for medical stuff, like medication or whatever. It helps farmers all over the U.S., not just in Oklahoma, so a lot of national bands come and play for it. It's a great way to get some good exposure and meet a lot of cool people in the music industry, especially for a band like us, since we don't have a manager yet." Chad grabbed his spiky red hair in his hands. "Dude, she knows _Justin Wieland_. Have you ever heard of an indie band called Aartvark?"

"Yeah," said Sam. "From my college days, and they're on my iPod." The iPod that Azlin had downloaded thousands of songs onto for him. He felt a pang of frustration. She'd paid more attention to him when he'd been comatose than she did now.

"Well, they're an Oklahoma City band," Chad continued, "and well-respected in the indie and college-radio world. They've been around a while, but they're still cutting edge and one of the coolest bands in the business. A lot of other bands have been influenced by them. Justin Wieland is their manager, and if Azlin knows him, that could be huge for our band—not that he'd want to represent us, but he might know of some lesser mortal that would."

"Sounds pretty exciting."

Chad tugged on the spikes of his hair again. "Dude, you have no idea. I am so stoked right now!" He turned suddenly to scrutinize Sam. "Why don't you come with us?"

Sam felt a spark of interest, but then his eyes rested on the wheelchair. "I don't think so."

"Got something better to do?" said Chad, arching a brow.

Sam half-smiled. "Uh, no."

"Then you're coming."

Sam glanced at the building of the rehab center with uncertainty. He hadn't left the grounds of the hospital in five months—longer, if he counted the time in the coma he didn't remember—and he'd never been out in public or anywhere else but the center in his wheelchair.

Chad followed Sam's gaze and scoffed, reading his thoughts. "Dude, you're not a prisoner here, and it'll be a piece of cake. You know I'll be around to help if you need it."

"I don't know. What about Sharon and Doc? Won't it be against hospital policy or something?"

Chad smirked and took on a confident tone. "Dude, Sharon loves me. As long as Dr. D gives the okay, she'll be cool with it. It'll be a nice outing to cheer up the lonely, gimpy, coma boy."

Sam huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, not taking offense. "Your sensitivity and compassion are touching, but I'm not sure Sharon and Dr. Davis will be as easy to sway as you think—or Francine, for that matter."

"Yeah. Francine has sort of adopted you. Don't worry, though, dude. I just have to mention Azlin in the mix, and all three of them will personally escort you out the door."

"What does Azlin have to do with it?" Sam had an idea, but there were some things he still didn't know about her.

Chad pressed his lips together. "That's the point in the conversation, dude, where I clam up and say no more, leaving you wallowing in curiosity."

Sam frowned. "Why?"

"Man, Azlin's got more facets than a ten-carat diamond, but it's not for me to tell you." He gave Sam a significant look. "You want to know the whole story, go directly to the source."

"You gotta be kidding me. I'd be better off banging my head against a wall."

"You might get further than you think. Francine's not the only one those dewy eyes of yours work on."

Sam was skeptical. "I don't think so. Azlin doesn't know I exist anymore."

Chad shook his head. "Dude, I don't know what you did to piss her off, but she definitely knows you still exist. Methinks the lady doth protest too much, if you know what I mean."

Sam felt a spark of hope.

"So, you in or not?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah. I'm in."

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin reached her car and plopped into the driver's seat, feeling a little weak in the knees. She had been walking on the sidewalk, distracted by thoughts on her meeting with Sharon, and hadn't registered Sam and Chad in front of her until it had been too late to avoid them. She looked up to see Sam _walking_, and even though it was just a few steps, it had taken her breath away.

She was so tired of the way her body reacted every time she saw him. After the night he told her to mind her own damn business, she'd tried like hell to do just that, avoiding him like the plague. She had begun to let her guard down with him a little until that night, and his words had been painful, but it could have been much worse. It had been a good reminder to her that he was dangerous, that he would hurt her just like anyone else. She hadn't spoken to him sense, and her mind was fine with that, but her traitorous body refused to get the fucking message.

She'd tried everything, distancing herself as much as possible from him, even moving back to her home to sleep for the first time in years. So far, she'd only had one nightmare, and she had been able to handle the aftermath. If they got worse, she'd get another apartment or something, but there was no way she'd go back to sleeping across the hall from Sam's room.

When she'd seen him up and walking today, she had felt something like pride and a desire so fierce for him she thought her body would explode. She'd realized right then and there that she was going to go mad without some sort of relief, that it was time she saw Justin again.

She'd gotten the annual call from Justin a few weeks ago about Pharm Fest and had given her usual refusal. But seeing Sam today brought home again the fact that it had been a long time since she had seen Justin, since she'd been with a guy, and her body was protesting. That had to be the reason why she was so attracted to Sam. It was the only explanation. So, she had decided to remedy it. After all, she wasn't a freaking nun.

She could have gone to see Justin without involving Chad's band, but Chad had wormed his way into her life, and he was a friend. Justin was one of the best managers and promoters in the business, and, although she hadn't seen Chad's band live, she'd seen video clips of some of their shows and had been jamming with Chad again, and she knew they definitely had potential. Besides, Justin would be busy running the festival. With Chad there, she'd have someone to hang out with when Justin was off working.

Now that a plan of action was in place, she felt better. She scrolled through and found Justin's number on her cell.

It rang a few times, and then she heard Justin's voice drawl,_"Hey, darlin'. What's up?"_

She smiled, made her voice a little sultry. "Hey, Justin. I've been thinking about you."

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin pulled up to the parking lot of the rehab center a week later and immediately spotted Chad's band mates. They were the three pierced, tattooed guys that looked totally out of place, standing next to an old, beat-up, maroon minivan. Chad was nowhere to be seen, but, of course, he was never on time. She was actually a few minutes late herself. The weather was sunny and slightly breezy, and Azlin was in a good mood, looking forward to the music festival and seeing Justin.

They had all agreed to meet at the rehab center and were going to convoy up to Oklahoma City. Chad had said only three people could fit in the minivan since all but three of the seats had been removed to make way for the band's equipment and amps, so he and Azlin would have to take a second car. She assumed it would be hers, since Chad's crappy Mazda pickup left a lot to be desired.

She parked her older-model red BMW next to the guys and got out of her car. "You guys waiting for Chad?"

They all smiled at her. One of the guys, a guy the same height as Azlin with a mop of black hair in his eyes, said, "You must be Azlin."

She nodded.

He whipped his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. "I'm Pete, and this is Nick," he said, indicating a taller guy with brown hair and a piercing through his bottom lip, "and Oscar." Oscar was average height with light brown skin and features that hinted he was probably Hispanic. He had the coolest long dreadlocks Azlin had ever seen. Pete seemed to be younger, around the same age as Chad, but Azlin was surprised that Nick and Oscar seemed older, closer to her own age.

She shook their hands. "Nice to meet you guys. I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise," said Nick.

She looked at the van. "Wow, that's one massive piece of shit."

Oscar laughed. "That massive piece of shit belongs to me. It serves its purpose, though."

She nodded. "So, where's Rainbow Brite?"

Pete grinned at the nickname and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. He was here earlier and loaded his guitars but said he had to go back in the building to get something. He always has to make an entrance."

Azlin quirked her mouth in agreement.

Nick worried at his pierced bottom lip with his teeth and then said, "Thanks, Azlin, for getting us this gig. We totally appreciate it."

She looked away, uncomfortable with his gratitude. "It's no big deal."

"Um, do we have, like, a motel lined up?" asked Oscar.

"No," said Azlin. "We can crash at my friend Justin's place. We'll basically just be sleeping there, anyway."

He nodded.

The plan was to go up tonight, and Chad's band Gravy Jones would open for someone—Justin hadn't said who—on Saturday evening. It was a good sign that the band was playing in the evening instead of during the day. She hoped they were going to open for somebody decent so they could draw a bigger crowd. She had sent Justin a few clips of Chad's band so he could see that they didn't suck, and she knew he would do them right as a favor to her. During the day, before they played, the guys and Azlin would have a chance to check out the other bands and see some cool music.

"Hey," said Pete, "here comes Chad." He frowned. "Who's that with him?"

Azlin turned to see what he was talking about and stiffened. Chad was pushing Sam in his wheelchair, heading toward the parking lot. Chad's hair was bright yellow today, and he had a huge grin on his face, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Sam was dressed in jeans, work-type boots, and a white button-down shirt with some sort of faded design, sleeves rolled up part way. It was the first time Azlin had seen him in street clothes, and her heart did that nasty little flip that she hated. He was holding a duffel bag in his lap, the look on his face inscrutable.

The heat Azlin felt at seeing him morphed into anger. What the hell did Chad think he was doing? When Chad and Sam reached her, she gave Chad a withering look. "What's he doing here?" She indicated Sam with a glance.

"He's going with us."

"No fucking way."

Chad gave her an innocent look, as if it totally made sense to bring a recovering coma patient along. "Why?"

She indicated Sam. "For starters, he's in a fucking wheelchair, Chad."

Sam firmed his jaw. "I'm sitting right here, Azlin," he said quietly.

As if she couldn't see him, as if every cell of her body wasn't pulsing with awareness of him. She ignored him, not caring if she hurt his feelings. Okay. Maybe she did a little, but there was no way he was going with them, and the sooner she established that, the better. If she had to be ruthless, she would be.

Chad's eyes widened, chin jutting forward in reproach. "He's just going to hang out, Azlin. It's not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal, why didn't you tell me he was coming?"

Chad shrugged. "Just never came up."

"Yeah. Right." She gritted her teeth, so angry with Chad she could kill him. "You know what? You guys are on your own. If this is how you return a favor, Chad, then fuck you. If he goes, you can forget about meeting Justin, and you can find a fucking motel on your own to stay in."

Chad flashed a look of angry disbelief at her. "Come on, Azlin. You're not that much of a bitch."

"Yeah. I am." The look on the other guys' faces was a mixture of shock and dejection, and Azlin felt a twinge of guilt. They were innocent bystanders in all of this, but this was all on Chad. She wasn't going to give in. "What's it gonna be, Chad?"

Sam was frowning up at her, his eyes dark and intense. His dark-brown hair stirred against his face and the collar of his shirt in the soft afternoon breeze. "What's the problem, Azlin?" he said, cocking his head slightly to one side, challenging her. "I'm invisible to you. This is the first time in months you've even noticed my existence. Why does it matter to you whether I go or not?"

She realized his voice was different than she remembered, no longer hoarse and much stronger. She stood there, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. _He _looked stronger, more filled out—not muscular, but healthier—although his clothing was still a little too loose. She didn't know what to say because he was right. She shouldn't care. His presence shouldn't ignite a firestorm inside of her. The silence was drawn out like an old western showdown at high noon, her eyes holding constant with his, her entire body stiff with tension.

Finally, Sam broke the standoff. "It's okay," he said, still focused on her, his voice soft and low.

The breeze carried it to her, and the deep, rich timber of it caressed her.

His gaze still trained on her, still challenging her, he said to Chad, "Take me back."

_Oh, great,_ thought Azlin. _Now he's a fucking martyr._ She looked at the woeful, accusatory faces of Chad and his band mates, all silently asking how she could be so mean to a guy in a wheelchair, and she couldn't stand it. She clenched her fists and resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Instead, she gave Sam an icy look and hardened her voice. "Get in the fucking car."

Sam showed no emotion, but he never took his eyes off of her.

Chad grinned and started pushing Sam to the passenger side. "BMW convertible. I love this _fucking car,"_ he emphasized, mocking Azlin's words. "You can have shotgun, dude."

Azlin, who had been about to open the driver's side door, froze, glowering at Chad.

He gave her a look that said _what? _and shrugged. "It's a coupe, Azlin. It'll be too hard for him to get in and out of the back."

She blew out an annoyed puff of air, knowing he was right. She pushed the button on her remote and popped open the trunk.

Chad opened the passenger-side door and locked the brakes on Sam's wheelchair. He grabbed Sam's duffel and put both it and his own bag in the trunk and slammed the lid closed. "All right, Sam. You ready?"

Sam nodded.

Chad bent down so Sam could put his arms around his neck, and on the count of three, they worked together to hoist and pivot Sam from the wheelchair to the much-lower seat of the car. Sam did most of the work himself, but, as he folded his long legs the rest of the way into the car, Azlin could tell by the set of his jaw that he was a little embarrassed, a little self-conscious that he had to have help.

Azlin caught herself wanting to praise him, to tell him that he should be proud of how far he had come, but she looked away, watching as Pete shut the side door of the minivan, and tried to hold on to her ire.

Oscar, who was driving, and Nick, who was shotgun, waved at her, letting her know they were ready to go.

Chad folded up Sam's wheelchair and knocked on the side door of the minivan.

Pete reopened the door.

"Dude, can you squeeze this in? I don't think it's going to fit in the yuppie car."

"Sure," said Pete, already reaching for it.

After he'd ditched the wheelchair, Chad went around to Azlin's side of the car and pulled the driver's seat back. He folded his fingers into a peace sign and raised his eyebrows.

She flipped him off.

He grinned and then squeezed his long, wiry body into the small backseat. He was like a little brother who did everything he could to provoke her.

She stood there for a moment, spreading her hands on the roof of the car. What had just happened? One minute, she'd been adamant that Sam wasn't going, and the next, he was sitting in her car. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, and steeled herself. It was nearly a two-hour drive to Oklahoma City, and it was going to be the longest drive of her life.

**SWDWSWDW**

Thirty-six minutes and forty-seven seconds into the drive on I-35, Chad was snoring in the backseat, and Azlin was pulled tight as a drum, trying to ignore the fact that she was mere inches from Sam sitting next to her in the passenger seat.

He had scooted the seat as far back as it would go with Chad's blessing, but his knees still almost hit the dash, and his head was precariously close to the ceiling. He was so damn big, had such a presence, it was impossible to pretend he wasn't there.

He smelled faintly of the antiseptic smell from the hospital, shaving cream, and soap. He might as well have sprayed himself with a love potion because the clean, male scent of him was intoxicating—one more torture she would have to endure. She tried to think of skunks and sewers and concentrate on the new Arctic Monkeys song she'd just downloaded that was playing over the speakers in her car. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam look at her and kept her eyes glued to the road. So far, she'd managed to avoid conversation with him, and she wanted to keep it that way.

"Nice car," he said.

"It's old." Her tone was clipped, discouraging further comments.

He didn't say anything, seeming to ponder his next words. "Azlin, I—"

She reached over and turned up the volume on the stereo, rudely cutting him off.

He sat there for a second and then reached over and turned it back down.

Azlin inhaled and exhaled sharply, conveying her annoyance, and turned it back up.

He turned it back down, brows arched in defiance.

She glared at him.

He ignored her pique. His eyes at the moment looked dark bluish-green in the bright light filtering through the windshield, and his expression was serious. It was that Sam expression, the soulful puppy look. "So, I've been wanting to apologize for months, Azlin. I shouldn't have said what I said, and I'm sorry. I know you were just trying to help me."

Her stomach lurched, and she felt her neck and shoulders tense. She trained her eyes back on the road. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He sighed. "Look, when I said you should mind your own business...that you had your own issues to deal with, I—"

"Whatever." Her heart started to beat faster, and she half-shrugged, not wanting him to know she cared. "I forgot about it." Her hand was resting on the gearshift, and she eyed the volume knob on the stereo, about to turn it up again.

He put his large hand on top of hers, gently but firmly pinning her hand to the gearshift as if he'd read her mind.

She felt the enveloping warmth of his hand, and warmth spread within her own body to match it.

"Then why haven't you talked to me for the last three months since it happened?"

She shrugged and looked at him again. "What do we have to talk about? I don't know you. I have nothing to say to you."

He glanced forward and then back to her, his manner determined.

She turned her attention back to the road and tried not to think about the fact that he was still holding her hand prisoner.

"There's something between us, Azlin, an attraction." He squeezed her hand as if to illustrate his point.

A jolt of electricity shot through her, and she stiffened, trying hard not to react.

There was a trace of amusement in his voice. "I know you feel it. You're good at masking your emotions, but you're not that good."

Apparently not. She rolled her eyes. "You're pretty full of yourself."

"No, I'm not. It's just that you're pretty elusive." His tone turned dry. "Who knows when I'll have another chance to talk to you? I don't have time to play games, and I don't think you're into that, anyway. If it's gonna be another three months before I have an opportunity to talk to you again, I want you to know how I feel now."

She glanced at him. "You don't want to play games? Fine. Listen closely, because I'm only going to say this once. There's nothing between us, nor will there ever be. There's a million reasons why I shouldn't be attracted to you."

"Name one."

"I'm too old for you."

He looked surprised. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two."

"You don't look it. I thought you were younger than me."

"Don't try to flatter me."

He rolled his eyes. "I wasn't, and you're not that much older," he argued.

"Four years."

"How do you know how old I am?"

She gave a little huff. "You were Coma Boy for seven months, Sam, and you were the talk of the rehab center. Everyone said it was so tragic that you were so young, only twenty-eight years old, such a mystery what happened to you, blah, blah, blah."

He digested that. "Okay. Whatever. If our ages were reversed, you wouldn't think twice about it. It might matter if we were in middle school, but we're not."

Obviously, she thought. He was a far cry from a twelve-year-old boy.

"That's not a valid reason," he decided. "Give me another."

"You said _one_ reason," she protested.

He shook his head. "That one doesn't count." He paused for a second, dimples deepening, but he wasn't quite smiling. He kept his tone serious. "Besides, you said you _shouldn't_ be attracted to me, not that you _weren't_."

Annoyed, she jerked her hand out from under his. "Stop splitting hairs. What are you, a fucking lawyer?"

He grinned. "Maybe in another life."

She scoffed.

They were silent for a moment, and then he grew serious again. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Azlin." Again, those brooding eyes. He looked so sincere. "I was a jerk. I lashed out at you, and you didn't deserve it."

She let his apology sit there for a moment, not ready to give in to that look of his just yet, not ready to let him off the hook. "You said that I'm 'fucked up enough as it is.'"

He winced. "I thought you didn't remember."

"Must be a miracle," she deadpanned. "It came back to me." She paused and raised her brows a fraction. "I don't deny it. I am fucked up, but I want to know how much you know about me. How much did Francine and Chad tell you?" She glanced at Chad in the rearview mirror. He was still snoring.

"First of all, you're _not_ fucked up. I never should have said that."

She waved away his comment. "Whatever. How much do you know? How much did they tell you?" she repeated.

"Uh, Francine and Chad didn't tell me anything. I researched you on the Internet."

She gave him a sideways glance.

He grinned a little. "I was curious about you, and I, uh—" He cleared his throat. "I'm kind of good at research."

"What did you find out?"

He took a deep breath and looked at her intently. "I know that your parents died eight years ago in a car accident, that you're an heiress to an oil fortune that has grown to massive proportions because of wise investments by your grandfather and dad, that you're richer than Croesus, like Saudi-Arabian-princess rich. I know that you give away millions every year to various charities and that you try to do it anonymously, but someone usually figures out where it came from. I know that the rehab center is completely funded by private donor, and that donor is you."

She exhaled a deep breath and absently rested her right hand back on the gearshift.

He continued. "I know that you were in an indie band called Private Lies during your college years, and you continued with it after you graduated Phi Beta Kappa from the University of Oklahoma with a degree in business. You created quite a buzz with your talent, and there was talk of a full-length album and a record label. Whenever your parents were killed, you suddenly quit the band and no one ever heard from you again, at least in the music scene around Dallas and Oklahoma City."

Well, he'd certainly been thorough. "You didn't leave a lot to the imagination, did you?" she asked.

He gently placed his hand on top of hers again and began to rub the back of her hand with his thumb.

She was momentarily distracted by it and let the car drift onto the shoulder of the road. Feeling like a dork, she jerked the car back onto the highway but didn't move her hand. What he was doing to it felt too good.

He smiled a little at the fact that she'd nearly run off the road but was nice enough to refrain from any women-driver comments. "Do you want to know what I know about you that I didn't get from the Internet?" His voice was quieter and a little husky.

She glued her eyes back on the road in front of her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

He went on without her permission. "I know that my hospital bill should be astronomical, but, amazingly, Dean has been able to keep up with it and not go into debt, although I've been at the rehab center for over a year now. I know that you've had something to do with that, but you've been able to do it in such a way that neither Dean nor I have felt like a charity case.

"I know that you at least care a little something for me—or did—because why else would you have been checking up on me that night you came to my room?

"I know that there's more to the story about the death of your parents, that maybe something even more painful than their deaths caused you to want to sleep on a sofa in a janitor's office for five years instead of sleep in the luxurious mansion that's been your family's home for three generations. At least, you slept on the sofa until I acted like a bastard, and then you suddenly stopped," he added softly.

He was getting too close to some very painful memories. She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed.

"What I want to know is why you are a janitor at the hospital you fund. It's very Good Will Hunting of you—the musical genius masquerading as the humble janitor. What happened, Azlin?" he asked gently. "What—or who—else hurt you? What's _still_ hurting you? You're not as tough and unfeeling as you make yourself out to be, but you won't let anyone in. What are you afraid of?"

The lump in her throat was growing bigger, threatening to choke her. She sat still as a statue, barely able to see the road because of the tears blurring her vision. To her embarrassment, one spilled over and trailed down her cheek.

Sam stopped stroking her hand and reached over to wipe the tear away.

She studied the broad, handsome planes of his face, and, God, she wanted to let him in, wanted to tell him everything, let him take some of her burden, but she couldn't. She was afraid of him, afraid of the power he had over her with just his smile, afraid of the awesome potential that was there for him to hurt her. She knew that if she let her guard down with him, it wouldn't end well. There were so many things she didn't even know about him. How could she ever trust him? Another tear fell, and she wiped it away herself, gaining control of her emotions. She glanced at the road and then back to him. "What am I afraid of, Sam? _You_."

His brow creased, and he looked away.

"You seem to know everything about me, but what do I know about you?" She made her next words slow and deliberate. "Who the fuck are you?"

**_TBC_**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_Who the fuck was he?_

Sam sat there, not knowing what to say. Who was he? He was Sam Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, a freak with demon blood, the guy who'd started the Apocalypse, the guy who'd been cursed since birth, Lucifer's vessel. He was still trying to figure out what he'd done to deserve it all besides just being born. He wasn't perfect, but he at least tried to be good, wanted to be good more than anything; but the darkness within him had surfaced anyway, no matter how much he'd fought it. Now, though, for once in his life, he actually had hope.

Maybe he'd finally sacrificed enough when he'd jumped into the cage in hell with Lucifer—maybe eternal damnation had finally been enough to pay his debts, because someone powerful had brought him back. He didn't know who. Castiel never answered when Sam called to him, and Dean had said Cas didn't know, anyway. So who could it have been? It felt almost pompous to think it, but he hoped it was God. Maybe he'd finally proven himself. Maybe his sins had been wiped clean. Maybe he could finally escape hunting, live a half-way normal life. True, he'd tried it with Jessica, and it had ended in disaster, but he hadn't paid his dues then, hadn't been to hell. Maybe the curse was gone, now. Maybe he'd been punished enough.

Was he deluding himself? Probably, but he refused to think of other possibilities, that something evil had brought him back. He wasn't even thirty, and he was so very tired, felt like he was a hundred years old. He wanted so desperately just to have peace. How was he supposed to keep going without anything to look forward to but more death and destruction? Once he got his body working properly, he was going to live life to the fullest and try to escape hunting, try to talk Dean and Bobby into getting out of it, too, although that was probably a pipe dream.

Of course, he couldn't tell Azlin any of that. She was right. He was asking her to divulge her most painful secrets, and he could tell her nothing in return. He sighed, offering her a lame answer to her question. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She looked back at the road shaking her head in annoyance, the line of her jaw tightening.

"I won't ever lie to you, Azlin, but there are a lot of things I can't talk about, at least not right now."

She rolled her eyes. "I rest my case."

Her hand rested on the gearshift again, and he began rubbing the back of it with his thumb as he had before, amazed at the softness and perfection of her skin.

It was almost imperceptible, but she seemed to relax a little bit.

It amused him that she seemed to be less resistant to him if he was touching her in some way. "Look," he said, "there's a lot of things in this world that require risks. Can't we just take things one day at a time, just live in the moment?

She glanced at him and then back at the road. "No way. That's a risk I'm not willing to take. Say I did give you a chance, started to care about you. How do I know you won't take off someday in the middle of the night? What if your big secret catches up with you and mafia henchmen come to take you away? Anything could happen. You could have a wife and three kids, for all I know."

He smiled faintly. He wished his secrets were even close to being that mundane. "I don't have a wife and three kids hidden somewhere, and I'm not involved with the mafia." He knew deep down that she was right, though, but he didn't want to admit it to her or to himself. Instead, he countered, "What if you fall in love with a tax accountant, and he gets hit by a bus?"

"Wouldn't have to worry about it in Dumas. There's no buses. You can walk from one end of the town to the other in an hour."

He grinned. "Okay. Make it a huge, 350-ton Ford truck, then. The point is, there's no guarantees in life, Azlin. There's the potential for heartbreak no matter who you are, but there's also the potential for happiness."

Her shoulders tensed. "Not for me."

He felt an ache at the loneliness of her words. "Especially for you," he said softly.

She paused and leveled her gaze on him. The light of the setting sun shone through the window into her blue eyes, making them luminescent. "At least tell me your real name."

It wasn't too much to ask, was it? She'd obviously suspected something for a long time but had never acted on it. If she was going to rat him out, she'd have done it a long time ago. Still, he was reluctant but wanted to give her something. "Winchester," he said finally. "Sam Winchester."

She drew her sculpted eyebrows together, her tiny eyebrow ring catching his eye in the waning sunlight. "That sounds more fake than Blackmore," she said dubiously.

He laughed. "It's the truth."

She looked less than convinced.

"I swear. It's my real name."

"Why did Dean lie about it?"

He took a deep breath and let it out. "I can't tell you that."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. But you and your brother aren't criminals."

Okay. So they were sometimes, but only because they had to be. It wasn't something they did for personal gain, and it was to help people, save lives. It was the result of a dangerous, have-to-save-the-world job that didn't pay. He couldn't tell her any of that, but he had promised he wouldn't lie to her. Cautiously, he said, "We have done things that are...illegal."

She looked at him with derision. "Sam, when someone does something illegal, it's called a _crime. _The person that commits the crime is called a _criminal._"

"But what if it's not done to hurt someone but to save someone's life?"

She pulled away the hand he'd been rubbing and gestured in exasperation. "What the fuck are you talking about, Sam? Just tell me."

Dammit, he hated this. He wanted so badly to be able to tell her everything. He didn't want to make the same mistake he'd made with Jessica. Azlin should know everything about him, but he wanted her to get to know him first, wanted to prove to her he wasn't crazy before he told her the craziest story she'd ever heard. "Just give me a chance, Azlin. I swear I'll tell you everything, eventually."

She didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.

He hoped she was considering what he'd said. She was gorgeous and intelligent, quirky and enigmatic, and she smelled faintly exotic, like cloves mixed with rosemary and mint. He wanted her more than any woman he could ever remember, even Jessica. His courtship with Jessica had been sweet and a little shy. They'd practically been kids, and Jessica was his first love.

With Azlin, though, he didn't want to take it slow. He felt an intense, dark passion for her, and he was tired of playing cat-and-mouse, tired of her avoiding him all the time. He was laying his feelings on the line because his life had been on hold for a year in the hospital, and he didn't remember the year and a half before that. He was ready to start living again, to start making new memories, and he wanted to do it with her.

The ring of his cell phone jarred him from his thoughts. He fished it out of his jeans pocket, saw that it was Dean, and held back a groan of frustration. _Great timing, Dean_. A cryptic talk with his brother while Azlin was sitting next to him was exactly what he needed right now. He almost didn't answer but was afraid it might be important, so he pushed the talk button and said into the phone, "Hey."

"_Hey, Sam. Can you talk?"_

He glanced at Azlin. "Not really."

"_Okay. I'll talk; you listen. Eve is dead."_

Sam was relieved but tried to keep his face neutral. "Good," he said carefully, trying not to say anything out of the ordinary.

"_I'll tell you the story of how it happened when you can talk. The good news is, Eve is dead. The bad news is that Crowley is not."_

"What! I thought—" He stopped himself. He'd been about to say he thought Castiel had burned Crowley's bones. That would have been a fun one to explain to Azlin. He glanced furtively at her.

Dean seemed to read his mind. _"Yeah, I know. Cas thought he'd burned Crowley's bones, but apparently he was wrong. Hard to believe, isn't it?"_ He sounded jaded.

Sam glanced at Azlin again. Her eyes were still on the road, but he knew she was soaking in everything he was saying. "You sound a bit...irritated," he said to Dean.

Dean snorted. _"Yeah. You could say that. Sam, something's going on, something bigger than Eve. I don't know what it is, but Castiel is acting weird. I don't know if we can trust him anymore."_

Sam's blood ran cold. "Is there something I can do to help?"

"_Sit tight for now, Sammy. Keep concentrating on your rehab. We'll keep you in the loop."_

Sam sighed. "Okay." He wanted out of hunting so badly, but at the same time, he hated that Dean and Bobby were having to do everything without him, knew that they needed him.

"_Talk to you soon."_

"Yeah." Sam ended the call, tapping the phone absently on his chin, pondering what Dean had told him. They'd thought killing Eve was the answer to everything, but if Crowley wasn't dead, that opened a whole new can of worms. And what the hell was going on with Cas? Castiel wouldn't have tried to trick them, would he?

Azlin arched a suspicious brow. "Something wrong, Sam?"

"Uh..." He trailed off, trying to think of the best way to answer her without lying.

Her voice grew hard. "Yeah. That's what I thought." She reached over and cranked up the volume on the stereo so loudly it was painful.

Chad jerked awake and yelled, "God, Almighty! For cryin' out loud, Azlin! Are you trying to kill me or just make me deaf?"

She ignored him.

Sam leaned his head back on the headrest, gritting his teeth in frustration. It was always one step forward, two steps back with her.

The rest of the trip was spent listening to Azlin's iPod. She made it clear there would be no more talking, not even small talk now that Chad was awake, and she kept both hands firmly on the wheel. Even Chad finally gave up, unable to yell over the blaring noise.

When they reached Oklahoma City, they meandered their way through downtown, eventually pulling up in front of an old warehouse in the Brick Town area that had been converted to a club called Dusk. They found a parking place, and Oscar pulled the minivan into the spot next to them. It was early evening.

Azlin looked at Chad in the rearview mirror. "We're meeting Justin here. I don't know who's playing, but he's working tonight and said we should hang out with him here until we crash at his place later on." She didn't give Sam even a cursory glance. She jumped out of the car, leaving her door open so Chad could get out, and went over to the minivan to explain to the other guys what was going on.

Chad got out, got Sam's wheelchair from the minivan, and helped Sam get out of the car.

At the door of the club, Azlin told the unfriendly-looking bouncer they were guests of Justin Wieland and waited while the bouncer looked over his list to confirm it. Before the bouncer could finish flipping through the pages, a tall guy about the size of Dean, with short, blond hair and a GQ face, came up behind Azlin and wrapped his arms around her. "Hey, darlin'," he drawled.

She turned around in his arms to face him, and an instant, brilliant smile lit her face.

Sam felt a stab of jealousy that this stranger could get such a rare response from her.

"Hey, Justin," she said, looking up into the guy's face.

Justin bent down and kissed her not-so-chastely on the lips. "I'm glad y'all finally made it." He talked with a slow drawl, and the way he handled Azlin wasn't lecherous, but overly familiar.

Sam developed an instant dislike of him.

Azlin gave Justin a smile laced with innuendo. "Me, too. It's been too long."

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin was lying in bed with Justin, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers for pajamas because she'd forgotten to pack something to sleep in. She could smell his expensive cologne and feel the satiny luxury of his 750 thread-count sheets and tried not to let it annoy her. He'd always been so obsessed with the finer things in life, wasting money on the most trivial things, like a ridiculous eight-hundred-dollar, custom-made umbrella from London, but she tried to cut him some slack. He'd come from much more modest beginnings than she had, although she would have never paid eight hundred dollars for an umbrella. That was just asking for a drought.

They had all stayed out late, getting back to Justin's contemporary, tastefully-decorated loft around three-thirty in the morning. The loft had three bedrooms and a large common area furnished with a huge, white, Italian-leather sectional sofa. Chad, not the selfless type, had taken one of the guestrooms and left his bandmates to fend for themselves in the living area. Sam was in the other guestroom, and Azlin was in the master bedroom with Justin.

She had a good buzz going from four Grey-Goose-and-sodas and a shot of Patron (only the best from Justin) and tried to focus on the butterfly kisses Justin was trailing down the back of her neck instead of thinking how exhausted Sam had looked before he'd finally gone to bed. She wondered if he was comfortable and if Chad had helped him. _Stop it_, she told herself. Of course Chad had helped him. Chad was a tool, but even three sheets to the wind, he wouldn't forget about Sam.

Sam had drunk only three beers the entire, long evening. Azlin knew it had been a long time since he'd been able to drink, but the beers had fit in his large hand as though it had been just yesterday since he'd had one. He didn't seem to be uncomfortable with the inherent seediness of the club, the stale-smoke and sour-beer smells, or the loud music coming from the stage. He'd quietly nursed each beer, making them last, only talking when spoken to, a pensive observer.

She'd tried to focus on Justin, tried to get Sam out of her head, but the whole time she'd been aware of Sam's eyes on her. _Just give me a chance, Azlin_, he'd said. It kept running through her head like some freaky yoga mantra. She'd been distracted the whole evening and hoped Justin hadn't noticed.

"Earth to Azlin. You in there?" said Justin.

She looked at Justin over her shoulder and tried to give him a convincing smile. "What?"

He was propped on one elbow, his head resting in his hand, half a smirk on his chiseled face. His eyes were sea-foam green, and she'd always thought they were his best feature, but a pair of much darker mossy-green ones kept haunting her thoughts.

"I was just kissing the back of your neck," he said, "which has never failed to get you into a more, shall I say, receptive mood, and I don't even think you felt it."

She rolled all the way onto her back so she could talk to him easier. "Sorry. Maybe I'm tired."

He gave a faint snort of disbelief and then looked at her a moment. "You're thinking about that guy Sam, aren't you?" It hadn't really been a question. He'd said it like he knew for sure.

"Why do you say that?"

He reached down with his free hand and caressed the back of her hand with his thumb just like Sam had done in the car.

She liked it better when it had been Sam.

Justin smiled wryly. "Because, although we haven't seen each other in over a year, you had a hard time keeping up with what I was saying, you hardly noticed that one of your favorite bands was onstage, and you kept trying not to look at him, which you failed miserably at, by the way."

She was rueful. "Sorry."

"What's between you two?"

"Nothing."

"You've never been able to hide your feelings from me, Azlin," he reproached gently.

She frowned.

"It wasn't just you," said Justin. "Sam brooded all night and hardly ever took his eyes off of you. Plus, he had kind of a," he hesitated, "hostile vibe, and the brunt of it was aimed at me. He's not the kind of guy you want to be on the bad side of. He's sort of dangerous."

She laughed. "That's ridiculous. Sam's not dangerous."

Justin raised his brows and tilted his head, looking skeptical. "If the guy wasn't in a wheelchair, I have no doubt he could seriously kick my ass. Hell, he might find a way to do it anyway."

The thought made her uncomfortable because she realized she couldn't totally deny it. She felt a little shiver at the memory of Sam's face when she and Justin had headed for the master bedroom together. He'd looked hurt and pissed off as hell. "Whatever," she said, trying to brush it off.

"I think he really cares about you, Azlin."

She didn't say anything.

"And I think you care about him, too."

Justin was too astute, and it made her uncomfortable. Although she hadn't seen him in a long time, he was the closest thing she'd ever had to a best friend. He'd always been there for her, and she'd always been able to tell him things she couldn't tell anyone else. It had been that way even when he had just been the manager of her band and she and Ramsey had still been together.

Maybe it was the proverbial crushing weight she felt on her shoulders or the vodka buzz she had going or both, but she couldn't hold it in anymore. "I think I'm in love with him," she blurted.

Justin looked shocked.

She couldn't believe she'd said it herself. She laughed, but it was full of self-scorn. "I'm so fucked. I don't really know anything about him or even why I'm attracted to him, let alone how I could _love_ him. Maybe it's just infatuation." She gave Justin a look. "It's been a long time since you and I have been together, so maybe it's just lust. Whatever it is, it's eating me alive." She clenched her eyes shut against a wave of almost physical pain. "I can't get any relief from it, Justin. When I'm away from him, all I can think about is him. When I'm near him, he's my whole world."

"Then why are you denying yourself? Give him a chance."

She shook her head, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "I can't. I will _never_ let myself be vulnerable again like I was with Ramsey." She gave Justin a teasing look. "I'd rather just use you, instead."

He laughed. "You know you can use me anytime, darlin', but I want you to be happy."

She sighed. "I think Sam could make me happy, but that's what's so scary."

He shook his head. "Not everyone is a bastard like Ramsey. Besides, judging by what I witnessed from Sam tonight, he's already protective toward you. I never got that vibe from Ramsey. Ramsey never cared about anyone but himself," he added darkly.

"Yeah. That's what worries me, because I had no clue with Ramsey, thought he was the most wonderful guy in the world. I really know how to pick 'em."

He cupped her chin with his hand. "Look at me, Azlin."

She did.

"You got burned once, badly, but you're not the only one it's happened to. You don't have a monopoly on broken hearts. You are, however, the only person I know who's never moved on. Stop punishing yourself. Give someone else a chance."

She traced a circle on his bare chest. "Why can't it be you?"

He gave her a sad smile. "We tried that, remember?"

"You're a great guy, Justin. Why hasn't some beautiful girl snapped you up?"

He shrugged and gave her a playful nudge. "Maybe it's time I stopped saving myself and moved on, too."

She smiled, keeping the moment light, but felt a pang of guilt at the deeper meaning of his words.

**SWDWSWDW**

Sam was sitting at a table in his wheelchair, listening to the obscure indie music a DJ was playing while Azlin, Chad, and his bandmates were unloading equipment from the minivan and starting to set up for their show. They were at a different, much larger venue than Dusk called The Midnight Runner, and Chad and his friends were ecstatic. They were the opening band—for the opening band—of Aartvark. Justin had surprised them with the news earlier that morning.

Sam didn't really see what the big deal was, but apparently being associated with Aartvark at all was huge in the minds of Chad and his bandmates, even though they were the first band to play that night. Chad's thinking was that people would come early—lots of people—since it was general admission, to reserve a good spot close to the stage for when the main band came on, so Chad's band would get some good exposure.

Sam's table was set back pretty far from the stage, but Chad—hair a vibrant indigo for the occasion—had said Sam could move to the sound booth when it was time for the show to start. Ron, the sound guy, was cool with it, and Chad had said it was the best seat in the house. It was close enough to the stage to see the performers and positioned centrally to the band so the sound would be balanced and even.

Sam had wanted to ditch the wheelchair. He was able to walk a little farther distance now—ten exhausting steps instead of four—but Chad had adamantly refused. "Dude, what if the place catches on fire or something? You still can't walk very far, and I'm not gonna get trampled dragging your Goliath ass out the door."

So Sam was sitting there nursing a beer and watching them set up. There were already a few people there to see the show, but it wasn't crowded yet. His eyes went to Azlin. She was wearing some sort of high-waisted, silky minidress that was teal in color. The top part hugged her ample breasts and had beading and sequins on it that reminded him of the intricate patterns embroidered on things from India or Thailand. It made her have a sort of gypsy, bohemian vibe. The bottom part of the dress clung to her body as she moved, accentuating her flat belly and shapely thighs, and he swallowed as a surge of heat spread through him.

The thought of Justin touching her, of her spending the night in his bed, made Sam furious and a little ill, and he hated that he was stuck in a wheelchair. He needed to let off some steam and wished he could go for a run or beat the tar out of someone—or some thing—or hustle some frat boy at pool. He needed to find an outlet for this dangerous feeling of disappointment and hurt that he felt toward Azlin and the murderous anger he felt toward Justin.

He heard the loud scrape of a chair on the floor and looked up to see Justin pulling back on one. "Mind if I sit here?"

Sam did, but he didn't say anything.

Justin had an earpiece in one ear connected to an expensive-looking walkie-talkie. He pushed a button on it and said, "Lanie, bring a decent Scotch over to my table, please, and—hold on." He looked at Sam. "What can I get you?"

Sam still had a half-full longneck, and he wouldn't have let this dick buy him a beer anyway. "I'm good," he said curtly.

Justin nodded.

They sat in a tense silence for what seemed like several minutes, both of them watching the equipment being set up and watching Azlin in particular. Sam admired the efficient, confident way she knew her way around the wires and instruments and made unassuming suggestions to Chad and the other guys of where things should go.

"She takes to the stage like a fish to water," remarked Justin.

Sam raised his eyebrows a little in acknowledgment, but he didn't want to get into a conversation with this guy, especially not about Azlin.

"You should see her perform." He looked directly at Sam. "I mean, she told me about the coma, about how she played for you. That's...incredible."

Sam watched her, gratitude overwhelming him as it did every time he thought about it, the strange and remarkable connection they had shared because of her music.

"I'm sure you've seen her play since then," assumed Justin.

"Yeah." Sam had only seen her play the one song, but he wasn't going to admit that she hadn't played for him any more than that.

Justin cocked a brow. "On a stage?"

"No."

Justin nodded and looked back to the stage. "Didn't think so. She hasn't done it in years, but it's amazing. She should be famous—would have been, if her parents hadn't been killed." He eyed Sam again. "What do you know about that, Sam? What has she told you?"

Sam clenched his jaw. He didn't want to talk to this guy, so he shrugged, trying to discourage conversation. He wasn't about to admit that she hadn't told him anything, that he'd gone behind her back and researched her on the Internet.

There was something like amusement in Justin's eyes, but he didn't smile.

Sam found it irritating.

"I'm from Dumas," said Justin, "went to high school with Azlin. I was a senior when she was a freshman." He chuckled. "She was a little nerdy, kind of a band geek, but she was a sweet girl. She obviously had a crush on me, so I was nice to her. I actually found her attractive, but I was about to go off to college, and she was just beginning high school. Plus, her dad was the most powerful man in town, and I—well, let's just say I didn't have the best reputation. I experimented with drugs, drank too much. I don't blame the man for not wanting me near his daughter. She was a good person, trusting, a little naive. She saw the good in everyone, even me."

Despite his dislike of Justin, Sam almost smiled. It was hard to think of Azlin as nerdy and a band geek. She was the furthest thing from geeky that a person could be. And naive? It was impossible to picture her that way.

A waitress came over and brought Justin's drink, and he winked at her.

She gave him a saucy wink back.

"Thanks, Lanie."

She nodded and then eyed Sam, giving him a friendly smile.

Sam returned the smile to be polite.

Her expression turned a little sultry, and her eyes lingered on him before she walked away.

"Anyway," said Justin, sipping his drink, "Azlin was in a band called Private Lies while she was still in college. It was just a side project, and I don't think she was that serious about it until she graduated. She's a smart girl, had a 3.9 grade-point average, and college was her priority until afterward.

"Private Lies had four members, and one of them was a guy named Ramsey Lowell. He and Azlin had been dating for a year by the time I spotted them playing in a coffeehouse on Campus Corner in Norman. I offered to manage the band, and they all agreed, so I got to know the band and reconnected with Azlin.

"At first, I thought Azlin and Ramsey were perfect for each other, that they were both deeply in love, but as I got to know them better, I realized the only person Ramsey was in love with was himself. Ramsey was a sociopath and a narcissist, but he was smart and hid it well." Justin's features darkened, and he took a large pull of the Scotch, wincing a little as it went down.

Sam glanced at Azlin, who was still on the stage. He didn't like where this story was going and wondered why Justin was telling it, especially to him.

"After Azlin graduated, she devoted more time to the band, took it more seriously, and they developed quite a following and quite a buzz, not just in the City, but Dallas, too. Azlin loved being onstage. It was in her blood.

"The night her parents died, she had a fight with them. She's never told me what it was about, but I have an idea. She blames herself for their accident. She thinks her dad, who was driving, was so upset with her that he wasn't paying attention, and he and her mother had a head-on with a semi."

Sam ached for her, knowing firsthand what it was like to have some of the last words you ever said to someone be words of anger. He knew what it was like to never be able to apologize, to never be able to make things right. He also knew the horrible pain of losing a parent and couldn't imagine the devastation of losing both at one time.

Justin cleared his throat, his features hard. "Ramsey was using Azlin, but, ironically, it wasn't for her money like most would think. He was obsessed with fame, craved it, and recognized that she was a big part of the reason for the band's success. I'm sure the money was a nice fringe benefit, too," he added cynically.

"I could see this in Ramsey so clearly, and I was going to tell Azlin, try to warn her, but I put it off because I knew how it would hurt her. Ramsey had been talking marriage to her. This was the guy she was head-over-heels in love with, had been dating for around two years, and thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with. I waited to tell her because I was a coward, and then her parents got killed, and I couldn't add what I suspected about Ramsey onto everything else." He closed his eyes for a second and grimaced. "I wish I hadn't waited."

There was genuine misery on Justin's face, and Sam thought begrudgingly that the guy really did care about Azlin.

Justin recovered himself and continued. "I had set up a gig where some pretty big record execs were going to come see Private Lies play. These were execs from big labels, and they were coming in to see Aartvark and another band besides Private Lies. Azlin's parents were killed a week and a half before the date of the gig. Ramsey saw that it was his big chance and thought that if Private Lies backed out, they might not ever have such an opportunity again. He laid a huge guilt trip on Azlin, and she went along with him and agreed to play.

"I tried to talk them out of it. I was just starting out as a manager then, but I had confidence in myself and in the band and knew I'd figure out another way to get them exposure. Ramsey, the asshole, wouldn't hear of it, insisted that they had to play.

"Azlin was a complete mess, of course. She had just buried both her parents and was trying to get through the quagmire of business decisions and estate matters of a billion-dollar family empire. She was only twenty-four years old and alone, no other siblings or grandparents, only a crazy uncle that no one had heard from in years. It had been just her and her parents."

Sam looked at her and frowned, imagining the grief and unbearable stress she must have been under.

"Everything rested on her shoulders, and she wasn't sleeping. I think the nightmares had already begun, but she didn't want to let the band down or, most of all, let Ramsey down."

Sam's frown deepened. "Nightmares?"

Justin nodded. "Ever since the death of her parents, Azlin has had horrendous nightmares. They cause her to have panic attacks a lot of the time. She has medication for the attacks if they're really severe."

Again, Sam could sympathize with her, although the nightmares he'd had after Jessica's death hadn't caused panic attacks. He'd been blessed with visions of people dying and freaky, demon-exorcising powers instead—gifts from the yellow-eyed demon.

Justin sighed and sipped his drink. "To make a very long story short, the night of the show was a disaster. Azlin had one of the worst panic attacks onstage I've ever seen and couldn't play a note.

"Ramsey, the fucking selfish bastard, stayed up there and kept playing, signaling to the rest of the band to keep going, while Azlin stood right next to him and fell apart. I ran up on the stage and literally carried her off. She was sobbing so hard she was hyperventilating, and we had to call an ambulance.

"In the aftermath, Ramsey was so angry with her he ended their relationship. I don't know what he said to her. She's never told me, but, as I said, he was a sociopath. I have no doubt whatever he said was vile and uncalled for. He took off soon after, moving to LA or Austin or somewhere the music scene was supposed to be better, and Azlin never touched a guitar or any other kind of instrument again—that is, until you came along."

Sam sat there stunned, thinking of the heartbreak Azlin went through, all that she had lost, the excruciating sorrow she must have felt. He felt a sickening knot in the pit of his stomach and a lethal rage toward Ramsey for what the bastard had done to her when she'd needed him the most.

Sam looked at Justin, seeing him in a new light. "I'm glad that you told me all of this, but why did you?"

Justin finished the last of his Scotch and set it down with a thud on the rickety table. He leaned in closer to Sam, features serious and intense, and said, "Because I love her, and because I will never let anyone hurt her like that again. You should have known her before all that happened. She was so open and trusting, funny, _happy_. This tough, unfeeling bitch that she is now isn't really her. It's armor she wears to protect herself."

He leaned back and shook the ice in his empty glass, pensive for a moment, and then raised his eyes back to Sam. "She opened up to me last night, told me how she feels about you. If she knew I was telling you this, she would kill me, but I think you need to know. I'm telling you, Sam, because I don't want you to give up on her."

Sam was confused. "But I thought there was something between the two of you. Last night, you—"

"Nothing happened." Justin was shaking his head, a regretful smile on his face. "All she did was talk about you all night. There's nothing romantic between us, Sam. Things have gotten physical between us in the past, but we tried to be a couple after Ramsey split, and it didn't work out."

Sam relaxed a little with relief, and the animosity he'd felt toward Justin eased a little, although there was still something about the guy he didn't quite like. "Thanks for telling me, but I wasn't going to give up on her, anyway."

Justin nodded, gave a half smile, and then grew serious again. "Let me tell you this, though. If I start to get a bad vibe from you, if I even think you're about to hurt her, I will find a way to make you pay."

Sam kept his face impassive. He didn't like the threat, but he knew where Justin was coming from.

"And if there's something in your past that can come back to haunt you, just be honest with her and tell her about it now so she goes into this with her eyes open. Am I clear?"

Sam cringed inwardly. There were plenty of things that could come back to haunt him—literally. He looked Justin in the eye, promising himself he would tell Azlin everything when the time was right, when she trusted him and knew he wasn't a lunatic. "Yeah. You're clear, but I have no intention of hurting her."

Justin scoffed. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Sam's blood went cold. "Trust me. I know."

Their attention was diverted when the background music stopped abruptly and Chad began doing a sound check on the microphone. Azlin and the other guys in the band started testing the instruments, creating a cacophony of sound. There were more guitars on the stage than people to play them, a keyboard, and a set of drums.

After the sound check, Chad and Azlin were making their way over to Sam and Justin's table, a wary look on Azlin's face at seeing the two of them sitting together. The club was filling up, and she and Chad had to weave their way through the crowd that was a mixture of college kids, indies, and a few Goths.

Justin looked at Sam with a strange glint in his eye. "You definitely won't have any competition from me after tonight. She may not ever speak to me again after I do what I'm about to do."

Sam frowned, wondering what he was talking about.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin was tense as she made her way over to the table where Sam and Justin were sitting. She couldn't think of anything the two of them would want to talk about except maybe her, and she didn't like that thought.

Justin was smiling at her as she approached.

Sam had on his serious face, brows drawn together, looking at Justin.

Justin stood and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "You done supervising?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was just helping them, Justin. They had a lot of stuff to set up."

Justin looked at Chad, who sat down in the chair next to Sam. "Looks like you've got a nice crowd so far."

Chad's eyes were bright with excitement. "Dude, this is awesome. This is so huge for us. I can't thank you enough."

Justin smiled. "No need. Seeing Azlin up onstage after all these years will be all the thanks I need."

Azlin narrowed her eyes. "Why would you say that? I'm not in the band."

Justin sat down. His manner was suddenly cool, all business. "Didn't I make myself clear when we talked before? I agreed to get Chad's band into Pharm Fest as long as _you_ were part of the package, as long as you would be playing with the band, too."

She felt a twinge of fear but tried to push it away. He had to be joking. He was her friend. He wouldn't do this. "Ha, funny, Justin." She looked at Chad. "You'd better get up there. The crowd is ready." She looked pointedly at the people gathered around the stage.

Chad looked from her to Justin, his posture uneasy.

Justin wasn't smiling. "I'm not kidding, Azlin. You're part of the deal. If you don't play with Chad's band, they don't play."

She was shocked at first, unable to believe what she was hearing, and then anger suffused her. She was the only one standing, and she put her hands on her hips, looking down at Justin, her voice like stone. "That's fucking ridiculous, and you know it. You never said any such thing. Besides, you'll piss off the crowd. They're ready to see a band."

Justin shrugged. "Gravy Jones was a last-minute add-on that no one around here has even heard of. I'll just tell the crowd that someone got sick or something. They're really here to see Aartvark, anyway, so it won't be that big of a deal if Chad's band doesn't go on. Besides, there's still another opening band after Chad's. I'll just have them start setting up after Chad's band clears their equipment."

Azlin was blindsided by Justin's betrayal, and she felt the sting of tears, which she fought back. Her knees felt week, and she dropped down in the chair next to Justin, glaring at him. "I trusted you, Justin. How could you do this to me?" She glanced at Chad's pale face. "How could you do this to them? You had them come all this way for nothing?"

"It's not for nothing. They've seen some great bands for free." Justin met her glare, his voice a soft reproof. "Always get the terms of the gig in writing, Azlin. You never know what unscrupulous manager or promoter might screw you over."

"Fuck you, Justin," she said with venom.

He raised a brow but was otherwise unmoved.

She looked at Chad. "Did you know anything about this?"

For once, Chad was speechless. He shook his head numbly.

Sam's expression was leery, and he looked none too happy with Justin.

Azlin looked over at Oscar and the other guys waiting by the side of the stage, exhilaration and anticipation on their faces. If they didn't get to play, they would be crushed. The thought of it made her feel ill. She trained her eyes on Justin, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. "Please, Justin. Don't do this to them. They don't deserve it."

"No, they don't," he agreed, "but the solution is simple. Get up there with them, and everyone will be happy."

She tried to reason with him. "Justin, I've never even played with them before. If I go up there, it'll throw them off kilter. They've been practicing hard for this. Throwing me into the mix will just mess them up. Plus, I don't know any of their songs."

"I'm not an idiot, Azlin. People sit in with bands all the time. Besides, there's no way you could ever be a liability to a band. And I know you've seen videos of them playing, which means you could probably play their songs in your sleep. I haven't forgotten about your special little talent."

Sam looked perplexed.

Justin quirked a brow at Azlin. "He doesn't know?"

She shrugged. "It's not a big deal. Can we stick to the discussion?"

Justin ignored her and shifted his attention to Sam. "If Azlin hears a song once, she can play it, and she remembers it forever."

Sam locked his eyes on her, brows raised in astonishment.

Azlin glanced away, embarrassed, and noticed Chad.

He had a pasty, worried look on his face, and his eyes were pleading with her.

She felt a pang of sympathy for him, and she clenched her teeth, suddenly seething at the unfairness of Justin's ultimatum. She turned her eyes back to Justin and said, "Why are you doing this to me? Have you forgotten what happened the last time I was onstage?"

He shook his head. "No. I haven't forgotten," he said quietly, "but it was eight years ago, Azlin. It's time you got over it and moved on."

"Go to hell, Justin. I will _never_ forgive you for this."

He looked down, trailing a finger around the rim of his empty glass.

Azlin was shaking with rage, and she met Sam's eyes.

He slid his half-full longneck across the table, offering it to her, his gaze steady and strong.

She grabbed the beer and chugged it, slamming it down on the table when she was finished. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she looked at Chad. "Let's go."

Chad nodded and stood, a mixture of apology and thanks on his face.

She stood and felt lightheaded, staring at the stage. She tried not to think on what she was about to do, tried not to notice how badly she was trembling despite chugging the beer, tried to fight the twisting of her gut and the nausea.

She was about to perform onstage again for the first time in eight years, and she was scared to death. She was going to humiliate herself and probably Chad's band, too. And the worst part of it all?

It would be in front of Sam.

_**TBC**_

**A/N: Dusk and The Midnight Runner are not real places, as far as I know. Bricktown is a real area of OK City, though. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Sam watched as Azlin and Chad disappeared to the side of the stage, both hidden by one of the huge speakers set up toward the front of it. He was angry at the unfair position Justin had just put her in and hated the anguish and fear that had emanated from her. She was terrified, and he didn't like to see her in distress for any reason. There had to be a better way than blackmailing her to do something she so adamantly didn't want to do. He glared at Justin and said, "For someone who claims to love Azlin, what you just did was really shitty."

Justin remained neutral. "It's time she faced her fears."

"Yeah? Well, maybe putting her in almost the exact same situation where she was traumatized before isn't the solution."

"I've known her for a long time, Sam. She can handle it. She just needs a little shove in the right direction."

"I wouldn't call this a little shove."

"I've tried everything. This is a last resort. Once she gets onstage, you'll see. She'll be fine. She needs this." There was something in Justin's tone that belied his outward confidence. He was trying to convince himself as well as Sam.

Sam looked at the stage. Oscar, Pete, and Nick were there, but Chad and Azlin were nowhere in sight. Chad's bandmates looked uneasy and a little baffled. The crowd was getting antsy, and it was obvious the guys in the band weren't aware of Justin's ultimatum and didn't have a clue what was transpiring.

Justin put a hand to his earpiece. His mouth pursed in an exasperated line, and then he said into the walkie-talkie, "Tell him to wait. I'll be right there." Turning to Sam, he said, "I have to take care of something," and he stood and hurried off.

The tension in the club was mounting, the crowd getting more and more hostile, and Sam couldn't stand it anymore. He tried to measure the distance from his table to the side of the stage. He didn't want to use his wheelchair but knew the distance was a lot farther than ten steps. Screw it, he thought. He could do it. He had to get to Azlin. He didn't know what he would do once he got to her, but he had to see her, make sure she was okay.

He braced the palms of his hands on the table and heaved himself up from the chair. Except for the mild head rush that he usually got when he first stood up after sitting for so long, he felt okay. He hadn't done any exercises all day, so he wasn't as drained as he normally would have been this time of night.

He made his way over to the wall and used it to give him stability, keeping the palm of his hand on it as he inched his way toward the wing of the stage. He could tell when he was getting beyond his limit, could feel his muscles weakening and start to feel shaky. He started to get short of breath and a little sweaty and clenched his jaw in frustration, forcing himself to keep going.

As he made his way behind the big speaker "backstage," Azlin and Chad were coming in the back door of the club that led to the alley where the minivan was parked. Both their eyes looked kind of glassy, and they reeked of pot.

Chad's hooded eyes widened when he saw Sam leaning against the wall for support. "What the fuck, man? I'll go get your chair." He walked past Sam, shaking his head.

Azlin looked up at him, blinked, and let out a short burst of a giggle. "You're freakishly tall."

Sam tried to calm his rapid breathing and grinned, realizing she'd never been this close to him when he was standing. "So I've been told."

She stared at him a moment, looking owlish. "I'm afraid of heights."

He tried not to laugh. "You're high."

"Yeah," she agreed with a crooked smile, "I am. It's Chad's fault."

He reached for her hand and pulled her closer. "Are you gonna be okay?"

The silly smile on her face flattened. "I'll be fine."

He squeezed her hand, knowing that she was still afraid. "Just pretend everyone in the crowd is in a coma."

She rolled her eyes and then gave him a look, the ghost of a smile making her dimples appear.

He wanted to kiss her, but Chad appeared, pushing Sam's empty wheelchair, and he looked over at it with annoyance. Nothing better to ruin a moment and emphasize his weakness.

She glanced at it and then back to Sam and looked like there was something she wanted to say but then thought better of it. Instead, she squeezed his hand back and said simply, "Thanks."

Someone in the crowd whistled angrily, and the murmur was starting to sound riotous.

Chad said, "Your chariot awaits, dude. Just ram your way through the crowd and get to the sound booth. They'll part for your gimpy ass like the Red Sea."

Sam reluctantly sat in the chair but was unable to hide his relief at taking the pressure off his tired muscles.

Chad looked at Azlin. "We better get out there before they start throwing things."

She nodded and looked at the stage as if she were about to face a firing squad. Her mouth was in a grim line, and she looked a little green around the gills. The weed she had smoked seemed to have suddenly worn off.

Chad gave Sam a look of trepidation and followed Azlin as she walked up the steps onto the stage.

Sam made his way to the sound booth, only running over a few people's feet in the crowd along the way, and they were surprisingly understanding. Ron the sound guy, a muscular guy about the same height as Azlin with a cheesy mock hawk, gave Sam a hand up the two steps into the booth, and Sam got himself settled into a regular chair.

On the stage, Chad looked at his bandmates and gestured toward Azlin, who was awkwardly positioning the strap of a bass guitar over her shoulder as if she'd never done it before. Chad said something to them, and Sam assumed he was informing them that Azlin was going to play with them.

The guys all nodded and seemed cool with the fact that she was joining in.

Azlin was shaking and looked deathly pale.

She had seemed stronger when Sam spoke with her earlier, but the stage seemed to have sapped her resolve. He was worried that she might pass out, and so was Chad, judging by the nervous looks he kept sending her way. Chad went over to her and whispered something in her ear.

She nodded and closed her eyes.

Chad stepped up to the microphone in the center of the stage, strapping a guitar on as he did so. He grabbed the mike in his hand, a guitar pick between his thumb and index finger, and smiled. "Hi," he said into the mike.

A few people in the crowd said hi back, but they said it with impatience and sarcasm. One pierced, mohawked guy yelled, "It's about fucking time!"

Chad gave him a sarcastic look. "Sorry, dude. I had to go smoke a doob."

"Right on, man," someone yelled. "Bring some for us!"

"Just kidding," said Chad. "That stuff's illegal." He glanced at Azlin.

She was looking down, trembling violently now, looking small and vulnerable.

Sam's stomach twisted into a knot. It was painful to see her so anxious, but at least she wasn't hyperventilating.

He noticed that Justin had made his way near the stage and was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Chad noticed him at the same time and gave Justin a meaningful look, making a drinking motion with his hand.

Justin nodded and said something into his earpiece.

A large Goth chick in the crowd whose sexual orientation was questionable yelled, "Come on, already! Play or get the fuck off the stage!"

Others in the crowd began to flip off the band.

Another awkward minute had passed when Lanie showed up with a tray of beers and shots. Chad and the other guys, who by now looked frazzled themselves, grabbed beers off the tray, and Chad took a beer and a shot over to Azlin.

She accepted what looked like a shot of tequila. Her hand was still shaking, and she downed the shot quickly before the liquid sloshed out of the glass.

Chad said something else into her ear.

She shook her head.

Chad stayed right next to her and counted off the beats to a song.

Colored lights came alive, Nick thundered a booming cadence on the bass drum, and the show was underway.

Sam kept his eyes glued to Azlin, every tense muscle in her body echoed in his own.

When it was time for Chad to sing, he looked at Azlin one last time, worry etched on his face, and went over to the mike at center stage.

Sam kept his attention on Azlin.

She was barely even touching the strings of the bass, still shaking, still looking down, like some shy wallflower at a prom trying to make herself invisible. When the song ended, she took a long pull of her beer and someone from the crowd in front of the stage handed her another shot, which she gulped down.

They played another few songs with the same results, random people still handing her shots every once in a while, and Sam was afraid if Azlin kept shooting tequila or whatever it was they were giving her she was going to pass out from drink instead of stage fright. However, so far, the only effect was that she had stopped trembling so violently and seemed to be a little more at ease.

As the notes of a new song began, her head came up, and she met Chad's gaze.

Sam recognized the song as the one she had played for him in his room, the one Chad had played so horribly, the song she had written. Apparently, Chad had practiced it with the other guys in the band and could play it much better now.

Chad said into the mike as the intro to the song was still playing, "This song is for our friend Sam." He gave Azlin a mischievous side glance.

She flipped him off and then looked out in the direction of the sound booth, squinting her eyes against the bright stage lights.

Sam laughed, knowing that she was looking for him but wouldn't be able to see him in the glare. He was relieved that she seemed to be regaining control of her emotions.

She began to play the bass in earnest, forcing her hands to stop shaking. Her graceful fingers seemed to go instinctively where they needed to be.

When that song ended, Chad said something to her and she nodded, taking the strap of the bass off her shoulder and picking up a guitar that was sitting in a nearby stand. She had picked up a guitar pick, and she put it between her teeth in order to use her hands to adjust the strap of the guitar. Her every movement was more confident and sure, and the crowd that had been oddly sympathetic and giving shots to her earlier began to yell at her in encouragement.

The song began with a guitar riff from Chad, and then Azlin joined in with a rhythmic harmony that drove the crowd wild. She mashed an effects pedal with her foot, guilelessly calling attention to her chunky, black lace-up boot and the fishnet hose on her slender, curvy calf and shapely thigh. The more she played the song, the more her confidence seemed to grow.

Sam focused on every minute detail of her, the way the changing color of the lights danced over her making her seem ethereal and larger than life at the same time. She didn't have on any jewelry except a thumb ring and small silver stud earrings. Her nails were short and dark, as usual, and she exuded a sexiness that was timeless. The way she moved was natural now, effortless, like she'd been there all her life, like she was playing for no one but herself and everyone at the same time, like they all had a piece of her because of the music.

As Azlin's song played on, the crowd settled into the rhythm of the music, and the low murmur of conversation that had been steady since the band had begun playing faded to nothing, every eye riveted now to the stage.

Sam could hear two guys talking near the sound booth.

"What band did you say this was?" yelled the black-haired one closest to Sam.

The shorter guy shrugged. "I don't know, but they're better than I thought they were gonna be," he shouted back.

Black Hair said, "That chick on the guitar is fucking awesome."

Short Guy nodded. "She's fucking hot, too."

Sam gave him a dark look. He must have conveyed his displeasure despite the dimness of the club because Short Guy caught his gaze and then looked away nervously.

As the show went on, Azlin came even more alive and seemed to be completely over the stage fright. Her interaction with Chad and the other members of the band was showmanship at its best, and it was clear that everyone onstage was enjoying it as much as the crowd. Chad and Azlin especially had a chemistry and synergy with each other that was electrifying.

By the end of the show, Azlin was sweating from the heat of the stage lights, the ends of her short hair damp, but the glow of her skin and the light in her blue eyes came from within. She was born for the stage—a rock star to the core.

As the show ended and the band put down their instruments, the crowd was yelling for an encore. It wasn't normal for an opening band to do an encore, so it was several minutes before the band came back out to an insistent crowd hungry for more. They did a cover of an old song by Spot, _Straight Through the Sun's Head_, that Sam recognized from his iPod. Azlin played the lead guitar, and when she was featured in a solo, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of dancing—not quite a mosh pit because it wasn't that kind of song, but close.

After the encore and the applause died down, Azlin and the guys began taking down and packing up the equipment, but they were hindered by people from the crowd who kept talking to them.

Black-haired Guy and Short Guy were still standing near Sam. Black Hair said, "I think we've just been upstaged."

Short Guy gave a derisive smirk. "I think you're right."

Sam was relieved that Azlin had come through okay and felt a foreign emotion, something that was maybe pride. He _was_ proud of her, and he was drawn to her, needed to be near her. He hoisted himself up from the chair he was sitting in so he could try to make his way to her.

Ron said, "You need some help, man?"

Sam wanted to refuse. It was just two steps down to his wheelchair, but he was fatigued from his earlier exertion. One misstep, and he would do a face-plant down to the floor. Swallowing his pride, he said, "Yeah. Thanks."

Ron gave him support to get down the steps, and Sam folded himself into his chair, hating his weakness.

As he started to wheel himself away, he heard Ron talking to Black Hair and Short Guy. He couldn't hear everything they said, but he heard Ron say, "She used to be in Private Lies."

Black Hair said, "Azlin Browne? I thought she looked familiar. I tried to get her to play with Aartvark way back when we were all just starting out."

And then Sam clued in that the black-haired guy was the lead singer of Aartvark, and the shorter guy, he thought, was maybe the drummer. Sam had been bored one day last week after his conversation with Chad and had looked them up on You Tube. He was still pondering this as Lanie, the waitress, blocked his path to the stage.

She plopped down in his lap, one leg resting on the floor and one hanging languidly over the armrest of his chair.

Lanie was an attractive blond with a nice body that was pretty much exposed, since she was only wearing a skimpy halter top, an extremely short denim miniskirt, and high wedge-type sandals. If Dean had been there, he would have been all over it, but Sam had no interest in her whatsoever. He was taken aback by her nerve and irritated that she was hindering his effort to get to Azlin. "So, Lanie, could you get off me?"

She trailed a finger along his collarbone where his button-down shirt was open slightly at the neck. "Can I get you something, Sam?"

"No."

She gave him a coy smile. "Are you sure?"

He clenched his jaw. "Yes."

She ran her hand along his knee and his leg. "I saw you get out of the sound booth, so I know you're not paralyzed." She looked down at his lap suggestively. "Everything working okay down there?"

Sam gave an embarrassed half-laugh, not knowing what to say. "Uh..."

An acerbic voice from behind him said, "Works better than your fucking brain, Lanie." It was Azlin.

Sam's pulse sped up at the sound of her and the fact that she was near.

Lanie jumped up from Sam's lap and fidgeted with her denim skirt, trying to pull it down.

"Get the fuck away from him," said Azlin.

Lanie cocked her head and raised a brow, as if she was about to argue.

Sam leaned his head all the way back to see Azlin, who was now right behind him.

She bent down and gave him a kiss on the lips.

It was a weird, upside-down kiss, but her lips promised a hint of something better and ignited an instant fire in him. She lingered for a moment and then pulled away, leaving him breathless and wanting more.

Lanie held up her hands in supplication. "I'm sorry, Azlin. I thought you and Justin—I'm sorry. Guess I was wrong."

Sam didn't hear Azlin say anything, but he could imagine the glacial look she probably had on her face.

Lanie ducked her head and scurried away.

Azlin began to push Sam's wheelchair and bent down near his left ear. "Sorry about that—the kiss," she said loudly over the music playing in the background. "I just figured that was the fastest way to scare her off. It looked like she was making you uncomfortable."

He turned his head toward her, annoyed that she'd only kissed him in order to rescue him. "Thanks, I guess." He wanted to say that _she_ was making him uncomfortable, but for an entirely different reason. Her kiss was all he could think about, and he could smell her, a combination of mint, musk, and tequila—and it was driving him mad.

"Chad found a table near the pool tables," she said, her breath tickling his ear. "Are you cool with hanging out there?"

Sam nodded.

As the night wore on, though, he sipped beer and watched as people from the crowd and also from various bands came up to congratulate Azlin and the guys from Gravy Jones. Chad was in heaven as girl after girl came up to flirt with him.

Sam had no chance to speak to Azlin because other people monopolized her time, and then Justin came to the table and asked to talk to her.

She gave Justin a withering look, and Sam thought she was going to refuse, but she took a drink of her beer and nodded curtly.

Sam watched her walk away with Justin and felt invisible once again.

By midnight, Sam was tired, Azlin was wasted, and so were Chad and the rest of the guys in the band. Sam had no way of getting back to Justin's, and he was pissed off. He thought about asking Justin for the key to his loft and taking a taxi, but Aartvark was about to go on, and Justin was busy working.

Sam had no idea where Azlin had disappeared to. She had been gone about twenty minutes—not that he should care. She hadn't talked to him again since she'd kissed him and parked him at the table. She had met his eyes a few times, but he hadn't been able to guess what she was thinking.

He suddenly felt hands on his shoulders, and then Azlin was bending down to speak in his ear. "You ready to get out of here?"

Her voice was husky, a little hoarse, and the warmth of her breath sent a shiver down his spine. His heartbeat picked up instantly, but he was still ticked off. He hesitated to answer, but finally said, "Yeah."

She held up a keyring full of keys in front of him. "Got the key to Justin's loft. We can take a taxi. Who knows when Justin or any of the guys will be ready to crash."

The taxi ride to Justin's was quiet. Sam was too tired to talk and Azlin was aloof and lost in thought. She didn't say anything until they were inside the loft. They were in the living room, and she was facing him, eyes glassy and a little unfocused.

He could see in the brighter light of the loft that she was even more drunk than he had realized.

"Um, do you need help, you know, with getting into bed?" She was swaying a bit.

"No."

She nodded. "'Kay. Let me know if you need anything." Her words weren't slurred, but they were overly precise, like she was having to concentrate on enunciating. She turned to walk toward the bedrooms but tripped on the edge of the thick, white, shag area rug. She lost her balance and fell onto the leather sectional, lying on her back. She put her arm across her eyes and exhaled a breath of air, puffing out her cheeks.

Sam suppressed a smile. He wanted to be annoyed with her. He was still trying to get over the kiss she'd given him earlier, and it was easier to be mad at her and remember how she had ignored him. He couldn't maneuver his wheelchair on the shag carpet, so he remained on the shiny, stained-concrete floor and said, "Are you okay?"

She puffed out another breath of air. "No."

He sat there, trying to think on the best course of action. Should he try to get her to Justin's room? The thought made him more morose. Even if she and Justin weren't romantically involved, he didn't like the thought of her sleeping in Justin's bed.

She peeked at him from under her arm. "Can I borrow your wheelchair?"

He laughed a little, despite his mood.

She plopped her arm down by her side, completely serious. "I think I might need it more than you at this point. The room won't stop spinning."

"Do you feel sick?"

She groaned and closed her eyes. "I didn't until you reminded me."

"Do you think you can get back up?"

"And do what?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you can make it over to me, maybe I can give you a ride."

She gingerly sat up and then swayed. Using the couch for balance, she stood up half way, made her way to him, and fell onto his lap. "Hi. I'm Lanie," she joked, batting her eyes at him. "Did you call," she exaggerated the forming of her words, "Sluts R Us?"

"Were you jealous?"

She pulled both her legs up and hung them over the armrest of his chair before answering. "No," she stated. Her eyes, however, said something else.

He spun the wheelchair around and headed toward the bedrooms.

She settled in for the ride, putting her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder.

He could feel her hair faintly tickling his jaw. "So, uh, are you still gonna sleep in Justin's room?"

She was quiet, and Sam thought she might have fallen asleep, but then she said, "No."

He was glad, and his mood lightened. "Chad's room?"

"Ew, no," she said with disgust, shaking her head. She poked Sam lightly in the chest. "Your room."

His pulse quickened. "Are you sure?"

He felt her nod. "Very."

He smiled and made his way to the guestroom he'd slept in the night before. When he reached the door, he stopped. "So, this is the end of the road. We'll have to walk the rest of the way."

She sighed. "Walking is overrated, Sam."

He cleared his throat. "It's the carpet. I—the wheels might get it dirty, and it's hard to move on it."

She raised her head and peered at the white shag that covered most of the floor of the spacious bedroom. "Damn. I forgot that hideous crap's in all the bedrooms, too." She shrugged and looked at him. "You hold me up, and I'll hold you up."

Sam nodded, hating again his weakness and that he couldn't pick her up and carry her to the bed.

She slowly got up from his lap and teetered a bit before she found her balance.

Sam locked the brakes on the wheelchair.

She turned to him. "What's," she hiccuped, "the best way to do this?" She was slurring more now.

He hated that she had to help him, but he was too wiped out to do it on his own. The more tired he was, the more trouble he had coordinating his motor functions. "Can you bend down a little bit?"

She nodded and did so, closing her eyes and bracing her hands on her knees. She looked seriously crocked and seriously cute.

He wrapped his arms around her neck the way he'd done a hundred times with Karl and Chad and the other nurses and orderlies at the rehab center and tried not to think about the fact that he was only inches from her mouth. "Okay. On the count of three, just bend your knees and then stand straight up."

She nodded.

"Okay. One, two, three."

They worked together and got him to a stand. His legs felt shaky and he swayed, fighting another head rush.

At the same time, Azlin overbalanced and wrapped her arms around his waist, and they found themselves in an embrace.

She looked up at him, her mouth curved in a goofy line. "You're like—" another hiccup, "—the leaning Tower of Pisa."

He grinned. "That's one I haven't heard."

She held onto him, not making a move to break free, her head buried in his chest.

He was already tapped out from the long night, and he didn't think his muscles were going to hold him up much longer. "So, I think we need to move over to the bed."

"Hmm. I like where I am." Her words were muffled by his chest.

He gave a self-deprecating smile. "So do I, but I think I need to get to the bed."

She sighed and looked up at him, understanding dawning through the drunken haze. "'Kay." She turned to face the bed, one arm around his waist.

He put an arm around her shoulders and leaned heavily. Together, they lumbered their way over to the bed and both practically collapsed onto it. They were both lying down next to each other across the middle of the high bed, legs bent and hanging over the side. Sam's feet touched the floor, but Azlin's didn't reach.

He was out of breath from the exertion.

She looked at him and giggled.

He looked away from her, embarrassed.

She nudged his arm. "I not laughing at you, Sam. I wouldn't do that."

He took a deep breath, still not looking at her.

She reached over and put her hand on his cheek, pulling his face to look in her direction. "I'm drunk, Sam, and being this close to you is making me, um," she giggled again, "giddy."

"What?" he said, surprised by her honesty.

She looked at him intently but didn't elaborate.

He frowned, wanting to know what she was thinking.

She drew her brows together in a frown to match his, but the way she manipulated her face was comical.

He couldn't help but laugh. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to figure out how you do that look."

"What look?"

"You know, that wounded-puppy look."

"What are you talking about?"

She turned onto her side, supporting her head on one arm, and reached over to touch his forehead with her fingertips. "You have this look that's really soulful. You're very hard to resist when you use it."

He didn't say anything, just held her gaze.

She giggled and hiccuped. "You're doing it right now." She looked skeptical. "Don't tell me you're unaware of it."

"Well, it hasn't worked on you very well."

She raised her brows. "Oh?" She sat up and maneuvered herself to where she was on top of him, straddling his hips. "You don't think so?" She braced her hands on either side of his head, and her face was close to his. Her eyes were the color of the sky where it meets the horizon, and the innuendo in her look and the heat of her body on top of him made him come alive. He forgot the exhaustion he'd felt earlier, his heart racing.

She lowered her face so close to his he could feel her quick breaths, smelled again the tequila and the essence that was her, and it was intoxicating.

He wanted her to kiss him so badly he thought he would die if she didn't.

She suddenly froze for a second and then raised herself to where she was sitting on top of him. She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Fuck," she murmured under her hand and jumped off of him like a shot, stumbling once as she ran for the bathroom door.

She slammed the door behind her, and then Sam heard the unmistakable sounds of retching.

He groaned in frustration and took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the hunger in his body. He ached for her so much it was painful, and he wished fervently for death, for some kind of relief from the torture he felt. Of course, the one time he actually wished for death, it didn't come.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin awoke to bright sunlight streaming into the room and quickly shut her eyes. Her head was pounding and her mouth was dry, like she'd eaten a bunch of tumbleweeds dipped in chalk. To top it all off, she felt sick and needed caffeine and grease, stat. She was lying on her right side, and she rolled over onto her back.

A pair of dark-green/bluish/hazel/who-knew-what-color eyes were trained on her.

Startled, she did a double-take and then frowned. "Sam?" The pounding in her heart now matched the hammering in her head.

"Hi," he said, grinning, and his teeth were entirely too bright.

She winced and closed her eyes again. "What are you doing in my bed?" Her voice was scratchy from too much yelling and breathing in second-hand smoke the night before. She sounded like a frog lady.

"I could ask you the same question, except I already know the answer." His voice was low and seemed to rumble up from his chest. He was lying on his side facing her, his head on a pillow. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she noticed a circular tattoo of a flaming sun with a five-pointed star on his upper left pec. It was a cool tattoo, and she resisted the urge to touch it. His dimples were on overdrive, he had a day's growth of beard, and his hair was rumpled, making him look a little roguish. The surge he caused in her blood pressure was definitely not good for a hangover.

Head now throbbing even more, she looked around briefly and realized she was in one of the guestrooms of Justin's loft—obviously, the one Sam slept in. She put her arm over her eyes to try to shut out the bright light and Sam's bright smile and felt the soft material of a sleeve. A sleeve? That wasn't good, since she'd worn a sleeveless dress last night.

She opened her eyes and stared at her arm. It was covered in a weird, black-and-white, cotton plaid. She sniffed the air and could smell her hair, which had the lovely odor of stale smoke, and she could also smell the mystery shirt she was wearing, which smelled like clean laundry, the rehab center, and Sam. She noticed the cuffs of the shirt were thick like they had been rolled up several times. She squinted at him with one eye, careful in case he still had that blinding smile on his face. "Am I wearing your shirt?"

"Yes."

Oh, God. What had happened? How had she ended up in his bed wearing his shirt?

"How do you feel?"

"Like ass."

He smiled but showed no teeth, thank God. "You were pretty tipsy last night," he said.

She grimaced. "Thanks for sugarcoating it, but let's be honest. I was shitty-butt wasted."

"Okay," he agreed. "You were shitty-butt wasted."

It was a little funny hearing it from him, and she smiled despite how horrid she felt. And then she remembered about the shirt. "Why do I have your shirt on?"

"You don't remember?"

She let out an annoyed huff. "I remember some of it, but not that particular detail, no."

He propped his head up in his hand, elbow resting on the mattress. "You don't remember that we were about to kiss when you had to jump up and run to the bathroom?"

She didn't know which was worse, the fact that she had been about to kiss him or that she'd had to run to the bathroom. She could guess the reason why she'd run to the bathroom—which was embarrassing enough—but how had they gotten to the point of kissing? "Did, um, we ever—I mean, did we actually—how far—"

He rolled onto his back, laughing.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sam. Just tell me what the fuck happened."

He sobered with effort, amusement still written on his face. "If it makes you feel any better, we didn't have sex."

She rolled her eyes and winced a little at the sharp pain it caused in her aching head. "Yes. That makes me feel loads better. What else _didn't_ we do?"

His face was neutral, but something about his manner made her heart do its little flippy thing. "We didn't kiss, either."

She was relieved but kind of disappointed, too.

He rolled onto his side again, facing her, and was more serious. "When we kiss, you'll remember it, and I'm not talking about a peck on the lips like you gave me at the the bar."

She felt a tingle and wanted to find out right then and there what he meant, but remembered that she probably had the breath of a walrus and that kissing him would be a bad idea anyway, although she was starting to forget why. She sat up with the intention of finding a toothbrush somewhere, hoping her unstable stomach wouldn't betray her again, and met his eyes. _"If _we ever kiss_."_

The grin on his face said it was only a matter of time.

**SWDWSWDW**

Although Azlin was hungover so badly she just wanted someone to shoot her, Chad was in even worse condition than she was, and since Sam couldn't drive, she was stuck driving back to Dumas. It was mid afternoon on Sunday. After they had stopped at a Taco Mayo to get some much-needed grease and caffeine, they had hit the road, Oscar and the other guys following somewhere behind in the minivan with Chad's guitars and Sam's wheelchair.

Chad had promptly fallen back to sleep in the back seat, a small kitchen trash bag in his lap courtesy of Justin in case he needed to throw up.

It had been mid morning when Azlin had woken up, and she'd gotten a full night's sleep, but she wasn't sure when Sam had woken. He had been quiet since they'd left Justin's and still looked tired. The late nights had been too much for him, and Azlin felt irritation with Chad yet again for bringing him. Sam wasn't physically ready for a full weekend of hard partying. She thought with satisfaction that at least she wasn't the one who would have to face Francine for bringing Sam back completely exhausted. Chad would get his just deserts.

Sam was asleep now, too, his head back and tilted a little toward her, and the hard, masculine lines of his face were relaxed. He looked younger, less wary and brooding. He looked sort of, for lack of a better word, trustworthy. He was wearing the plaid shirt she'd woken up in that morning, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she had apparently commandeered his last clean shirt after her bout of hurling the night before. He had finally admitted to her this morning that he'd told her to get it out of his duffel after she had announced that she couldn't sleep in her scratchy, possibly barf-stained dress.

Wow, that was a proud moment. And he was still attracted to her? _When we kiss_, he'd said. She touched her lips with her fingers, remembering the little peck she'd given him at the club and the electricity she'd felt even from that. What had she done to deserve his attention? He was strong, stoic, funny, extremely hot—in general, an amazing, decent, nice guy. She had been pretty much a bitch to him from day one, and yet he still seemed to be pursuing her.

He knew who she was, about her money, so maybe that was it, but she just couldn't wrap her mind around that. She had this weird sense about him that money meant nothing to him, that it was completely unimportant to him in the greater scheme of things. Of course, she hadn't been around him in a normal setting. When you were in a rehab center day in and day out, money _was_ pretty much irrelevant. Still, she just couldn't picture him as a gold digger, although she knew that he and Dean certainly weren't rich.

That's why not knowing his past bothered her so much. He'd admitted that they had done things that were illegal, but they obviously didn't get any personal gain from it. Whatever they were into, it wasn't making them any money. He'd said it was to save lives, but what kind of job that saved lives would require you to do something illegal? Were they, like, CIA or something? Maybe there was some weird government agency that was top secret they were a part of. That seemed too farfetched, though, and she hated the fact that she had resorted to making up mysterious government agencies to explain things. It wasn't too farfetched to think of him as one of the good guys, though, and a good guy wouldn't screw her over, would he?

She glanced at him again. A lock of his uneven hair had fallen forward onto his cheek, and she resisted the urge to brush it back. She was so attracted to him, wanted to touch him all the time. She craved him like a drug, and, as she had learned with Justin this weekend, there was no substitute.

Justin. Her friend the asshole. She had thought she would never forgive him for what he'd done, for blackmailing her to get back up on the stage, but, in the end, he'd apologized, and she had forgiven him. She'd made a show of being pissed off at him when he'd come to talk to her after the show, but the truth was he had been right. She had been sure she would humiliate herself onstage, and she had been on the brink, but Sam's encouragement and the music had pulled her back. The rush she'd gotten from being onstage had been euphoric once she'd gotten over the terror. Gelling with the crowd, with the guys in the band, and, of course, the pulsing of the music that replaced her heartbeat—there was nothing like it on the planet. It was in her blood, and she had been away from it for too long.

She wasn't sure what it all meant, but maybe she was finally beginning to heal. She was willing to give it another try, to maybe play a few gigs with Gravy Jones because, truthfully, she didn't think she could stay away from it now that she'd had a taste of it again. Maybe that wasn't the only thing she was willing to give a try.

As she finally pulled into the parking lot of the rehab center, Sam stirred awake in reaction to the car rolling to a stop. He blinked, took a deep breath, and worked his shoulders and neck to loosen them. "Did I sleep the whole way?" His voice was husky with sleep, and he ran his fingers through his hair.

He looked kind of boyish and a little disheveled. Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn't stop a little smile from escaping. She turned down the music she hadn't really been paying attention to because she'd been so engrossed in thought and said, "Almost. You probably slept a little over an hour."

He gave a sleepy frown. "Sorry." He looked back at Chad, who was still dead to the world. "I guess we weren't very good company."

"It's okay. I've logged a lot of hours on that road alone."

His frown deepened at that.

"You know," she explained, "going back and forth from school when I went to OU. I've driven that road many times by myself. As long as I have music to listen to, I don't mind it."

There was a beat of silence, and he looked at her intently. "So, Azlin," he paused, suddenly looking away, almost shy. He looked back and gave her a tentative smile. "I didn't really have a chance to tell you before, but when you were onstage—I mean, I know you didn't want to be there at first, but you were incredible. Selfishly, I'm glad I got to see it, although I know it wasn't easy for you."

She'd gotten a lot of accolades last night after the show, but this one meant the most to her because it was from him. She felt her throat constrict and swallowed. "Thanks."

"Maybe I'll get to see you play again?"

She shrugged, trying not to show how much his words affected her. "I don't know. I'm just gonna play it by ear—pardon the pun."

He showed his dimples, looking totally cute.

She didn't say anything, and a silence stretched between them.

"So, uh," he glanced back at Chad, "I guess I should wake him up."

"Yeah. Oscar and the guys should be pretty much right behind us."

He turned toward Chad as if to wake him.

She put a hand on Sam's arm to stop him before he could say anything. "Wait."

He looked at her expectantly.

She let go of him and looked forward, trying to build up her nerve. She was about to take a terrifying plunge into the unknown, but she was tired of denying herself, tired of torturing herself. She rubbed her palms on her thighs and blew out a breath, looking back to him. "Sam, would you like to have dinner with me at my house next Saturday? That's the next time I'm off," she added, trying not to sound nervous.

He looked surprised at first, but then he gave her a charming smile. "Yes, Azlin," he said politely. "I would love to have dinner with you."

**SWDWSWDW**

Castiel, invisible, watched as Sam smiled at the dark-haired girl in the car. Sam looked happy.

Castiel thought about how Sam had changed since he'd woken from the coma and what he himself had become. Sam was a good man, and now Castiel was the bad one. Their roles had been reversed, although he was beginning to realize that Sam had never been as bad as all the angels had thought. He was beginning to realize that sometimes the end justified the means.

Castiel was contemplating violating one of his most sacred values—loyalty to a friend, to Dean. Friends, plural, actually, because he cared about Sam, too. Sam had given his life to stop the Apocalypse, but it would all be for naught unless Raphael was killed.

But could Castiel do the unthinkable? Could he hurt Sam, bring down the wall in Sam's head in order to get Dean to stand down? The thought of it made Castiel feel an emotion he had been plagued a lot with, lately—anguish. He knew Dean would never forgive him if he did it, even if he planned to eventually make Sam right again after it was all over.

It might not even work. Castiel had tried to heal Sam, had wanted to make Sam's recovery instant or at least quick, but he'd been powerless. He couldn't override what Death had done then, but the wall was different. If Sam could scratch at the wall and bring it down himself, then, maybe, if Castiel could get inside Sam's head, he could do the same.

He would do the unthinkable if he had to, if he couldn't convince Dean to stand down, but there was still a little time. He would wait, for now.

_**TBC**_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Okay. I'm not very happy with this one, but just think of it as transitional and hang in there. Also, there's an adult situation at the end which isn't appropriate for young kids or virtuous adults, so consider yourself warned!**

**Chapter 15**

Azlin picked Sam up from the rehab hospital around seven, and they were now pulling her car into the four-car garage that was attached to her massive home. The size of the house was impressive, but Sam wasn't really interested. All he could think about was Azlin sitting next to him, the clean, fresh, minty scent of her, and every little detail that came together to make her Azlin—the tiny eyebrow ring, her delicate, black eyebrows, her pixie hair, those incredible eyes, the clingy black top she was wearing, her skinny jeans that hugged her body perfectly. Her jeans were tucked into black-leather boots that reminded him of a pirate—a cool, sexy, girl pirate.

She did that thing with her tongue that she did sometimes when she was thinking, flashing her piercing, completely unaware of its affect on him. "I pulled in here because there's only one step up into the house. The front has a lot more."

He was still thinking about her tongue and tried to comprehend what she'd just said.

"Sam?"

"Uh, sorry. What did you say?"

She glanced at the step in front of the door leading to the house and said, "The step? There's only one. I'll get your wheelchair out, but I was wondering if you could make it up the step into the house before you got in it."

"Oh. Yeah. Just put it inside the door."

She got out of the car, and he watched as she disappeared inside the house for a second with his wheelchair. Another week had gone by, and he was getting stronger. His strength and stamina were increasing rapidly now, and he was up to twenty steps. He didn't think he'd be needing the wheelchair much longer, but he would have to make sure that wherever he went, there'd be a place to sit if he needed to rest until he finally got to the point where he wasn't counting how many steps he could take.

She came back out and opened his door. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he answered and smiled. He was more than ready. He'd been looking forward to this night all week.

He was better at standing up on his own, but her car was low to the ground, so he didn't refuse when she bent down toward him like he had instructed her the night she'd slept in his room at Justin's. Apparently, there were some things she remembered about that night, he thought wryly. Besides, he wasn't going to pass up a chance to be in close contact with her. He reached up and put his arms around her neck. "On three?"

She nodded and, on the count of three, helped him to a stand.

He wasn't as fatigued as he usually was this time of the evening because he hadn't pushed himself as hard in therapy earlier in the day. He hadn't wanted to be tired on his first date with Azlin.

She put an arm around his waist in order to give him support, although he could have made it the few steps without her help. He didn't say anything and put his arm around her shoulders, enjoying the warmth of her body heat so close to him. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other until they were up the step inside a sort of utility and mudroom area.

Even that was huge. There was a large island in the part where two washers and two dryers were, a small flat screen TV on one wall, and the cabinets were nicer than he'd seen in some of the better kitchens he'd ever been in.

She helped him ease into the wheelchair near the door and started pushing him. "The kitchen is just through here."

There was no problem with maneuvering him through the kitchen. It was gigantic. Dark hardwood floors gleamed, the darkly-stained cabinets were even nicer than the ones in the utility room, and massive stainless-steel appliances and several sinks and faucets waited to be used. There were even two dishwashers. Sam knew next to nothing about home decor, but he'd studied architecture a bit at Stanford and knew the style of the kitchen was French.

She parked him at a breakfast table that sat in the nook of a bay window. "Can I get you something to drink? I've got just about anything—beer, wine, soda, water. There's a fully-stocked bar, too."

He thought about it, not sure if beer might seem uncouth in these opulent surroundings.

"Milk?" she teased.

He smiled a little. "Uh, beer, I guess."

"I've got Stella, Bud Light, Miller Lite, and Fat Tire."

"What's Fat Tire?"

"It's a craft brew made by the New Belgium Brewing company. It's an amber ale, and it's really nice—well balanced."

He raised a brow. "Are you an expert on beer?"

Her features darkened for a split second then went neutral. "I knew someone once who was into all the different craft brews."

He knew she was probably referring to Ramsey.

"Some of it stuck with me. New Belgium is actually a pretty big company. They also make a really good dark beer called 1554."

Sam was curious. None of the dives he and Dean frequented had anything other than the basics. He hadn't had a fancy beer since college. "I'll try the Fat Tire."

She headed toward the double-wide refrigerator. "Good choice. If you don't like it, just tell me, and I'll get you something else." She opened the huge fridge door, grabbed two longnecks, and shut the door with her hip. She opened the bottles with a bottle opener and walked over to hand one to him. She set hers on the massive island and walked over to one of the wall ovens and turned it on. "I hope you like lasagne." She stuck a casserole dish with foil on top in the oven.

"Sounds great, as long as it doesn't have turkey or chicken in it."

She frowned a little as she sat down across from him at the table. "Are they still keeping you on a bland diet?"

"No. I was just kidding. The food's really not that bad there."

"Shouldn't be. Donny, the chef, is really good."

"Chef?"

She arched the eyebrow with the ring. "You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"He's a real chef. He was trained at the Culinary Institute of America in New York. He's had a lot of extensive training and experience."

"How did you get someone with those credentials to work at a small rehab center in Oklahoma?"

"Well, for starters, I went to high school with him. He's from Dumas. Second, it helps that he makes more here working much less hours than he would as a sous-chef in some hoity-toity restaurant. Plus, he has his own little following here. The locals eat at the cafeteria at the center even though they don't have a reason to except for the food."

Sam took a sip of his beer. She was right. It was different than what he was used to, had kind of a bitter, hoppish aftertaste, but it was good.

She sipped her beer and then said, "You like it?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"When Sharon approached me about funding the rehab center, one of the things I wanted to make sure of—other than, of course, hiring the best medical staff we could find—was that we hired a decent chef. One of the things you always hear about being in a hospital is how bad the food sucks."

He snorted. "It does."

She frowned. "You've been in the hospital before?"

He cleared his throat. "Uh, not me. Dean."

"What happened?"

He didn't answer right away and looked out the bay window at the view. The front lawn of the house was green and immaculate and looked peaceful in the dusky light of the evening. When he looked back to her, he was a bit wary, not wanting to get into dangerous territory. "Dean's actually been in the hospital several times, but the worst was the car accident. All three of us—Dean, my dad, and I—were broadsided by a semi. Dean and my dad were hurt pretty bad."

She frowned. "That's how you lost your dad?"

"Sort of, yeah." A lump formed in his throat. Losing his father still hurt and was something he would never really get over. "He, uh, lived a few days after the accident, but didn't make it in the end."

She looked away from him, but not before Sam saw an intense look on her face.

He said quietly, "Dean told you he was dead?"

She looked back at him, her pale-blue eyes never failing to arrest him. "No," she said, "but I figured he would have been by your side like Bobby and Dean if he'd been around. Same for your mom."

"Yeah. Maybe." He took a sip of beer.

Her brows went up. "Maybe?"

He shrugged, trying to ignore how hurtful the memories were. "My mom died when I was six months old, and my dad..." He trailed off, remembering the last time he'd spoken to his dad and their angry words. "My dad and I didn't get along very well. I said some pretty shitty things to him right before he died."

She paled, and Sam could see his own grief mirrored on her face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to dredge up painful memories for you, too."

She cleared her throat and looked toward the oven. "I need to check on the lasagne," she said, and got up from her chair.

She was more guarded after that, steered the conversation toward safer subjects as she stood at the island and prepared a salad to go with the lasagne. She asked Sam a lot of questions about himself, and before he knew it, he was telling her about his days at Stanford, about his scholarship. "I was pre-law."

She quirked a brow. "That doesn't surprise me."

He smiled.

"So what happened?" She popped a black olive in her mouth and threw some in the salad. "I'm guessing you ended up not going to law school."

He hesitated. He wanted to be as open with her as possible, but he didn't want to be a downer again. "I, uh, left shortly after my senior year started."

She looked at him as if waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she rolled her eyes. "Come on, Sam. Don't leave me hangin'. You don't strike me as the dropout type, especially if you were there on a full ride, so why did you quit?"

He rubbed the rim of his beer with his thumb, wiping the moisture from it, and cleared his throat before looking at her again. "My girlfriend was killed when our apartment caught on fire. I needed some time off after that, so I went on a road trip with Dean." He shrugged. "I just never went back." It was all true. He'd just left some things out—some really evil, horrifying things.

Her expression was compassionate. "I'm sorry," she said, and held his gaze for a moment.

He knew she wanted to ask him more about it, but she didn't, and Sam was grateful. He wouldn't lie to her, but he would have to refuse to answer if she dug too deep, and the last thing he wanted to do was piss her off.

When the lasagne was ready, they decided to eat in the breakfast nook because Azlin said it was more informal and less stuffy than the dining room. The lasagne and salad were delicious, and Azlin opened a bottle of red wine to go with it.

They found plenty of nondepressing subjects to talk about during dinner, and Azlin was more at ease than Sam had ever seen her. He was thoroughly enjoying her company, and she seemed to be enjoying his. She was funny and captivating, and he thought that this must be a glimpse of what she'd been like before that douche bag Ramsey had hurt her.

After he took his last bite of lasagne, he sat back and said, "That was delicious."

She blushed and looked a little sheepish. "Thanks, but, um, I didn't make it."

He smiled, amused by her confession. "Donny?"

She smiled back a little shyly, her dimples charming him. "Actually, no. It was my housekeeper Zelda," she admitted. "She put it together for me, and I stuck it in the oven. I'm a really terrible cook."

"You made the salad," he offered.

She gave a faint huff. "It's pretty hard to screw up a salad."

"Best salad I ever had."

She rolled her eyes.

Sam laughed and said, "You have a housekeeper, and, yet, you're a housekeeper at the rehab center?"

She gave him a comical, chagrined look. "Pretty crazy, huh?" she said, and then she grew serious. "Until I started sleeping here again, I spent as little time as possible here."

"Too many memories?"

She swallowed and there was sadness in her eyes. "Yeah."

"It's a big house."

"Yeah. Too big."

"Your grandfather built it?"

Her expression was nostalgic. "Yeah. He was a pretty conservative, austere man, but this house and the surrounding ranch were his one extravagance. He grew up in a hovel, basically, so I guess he kind of overcompensated."

"The architectural style, it's French?"

She gave a short huff. "It's kind of a mishmash. The outside is Tudor, but my mom redecorated the inside with a definite French influence. I never liked it. It's a little stuffy and over-the-top, which wasn't like my mom. She used a designer to help with the renovations, and I think it's more to his taste than hers."

Sam tried to wrap his mind around it all, the money, the mansion, talk of a decorator. It seemed weird that it was a part of Azlin's life. She was so humble, so modest. She certainly didn't flaunt her wealth. He suddenly wanted to see where she had grown up, wanted to know everything about her. "Would you show it to me?"

She seemed pleased that he had asked. "Sure."

He pulled his napkin off his lap and folded it before laying it next to his plate.

She did the same with her napkin and stood. "You want me to steer?"

He nodded.

She pushed him through the first floor of the massive house, and when he saw the dining room, he was glad they'd eaten in the kitchen. He would have felt totally out of place in the formal, opulent room. The dining table itself was intimidating. It was long and rectangular and probably sat about twenty people.

After the dining room, she showed him most of the other rooms downstairs and, at last, pushed him over to a set of double doors. "This is the music room. I used to spend a lot of time in here when I was a kid. Lately, Chad and I have been practicing together in here, too."

Sam expected it to be like the rest of the rooms he'd seen, very formal and well-decorated like something from a magazine, so he was surprised when she opened the doors to a large room that was casually furnished with a cushiony, oversized, brown-leather sofa flanked by two end tables and two chairs with ottomans in some kind of soft-looking navy and yellow printed fabric. A coffee table sat in the middle, and all pieces of furniture sat on a thickly-padded, light-yellow area rug. It was a cheerful room with three huge, Palladian windows, which must have made it pretty bright during the day when the sun was up. Shelves along three of the walls neatly housed what looked like thousands of CDs, cassettes, and even some vinyl records. A large, high-tech looking stereo was also encased in a cabinet with glass doors on one of the walls.

Musical instruments of all kinds were scattered about everywhere. There were several guitars, both acoustic and electric, sitting in stands or leaning against whatever wall or piece of furniture was available. There was a set of drums, a violin, a cello, several woodwind instruments including what Sam thought was maybe a bassoon, and a shiny, black, grand piano sitting in front of the middle window.

She pushed Sam into the room and parked him near the sofa where he had a good view of the piano and the windows. Then she sat down on the sofa catty-corner to him.

"So, can you play all of these?" he asked, indicating the instruments scattered everywhere.

She looked around at them. "Pretty much, yeah."

He was amazed. "Did someone teach you? I mean, how did you learn them all?"

She shrugged. "I've always been able to play by ear, ever since I could first remember, so I learned a lot of them by experimentation. I had lessons for some of it, like the piano and the guitar when I was old enough, but my dad bought the others for me whenever I had a whim and wanted to learn one." She looked a little apologetic. "One of the advantages of being a spoiled little rich girl."

"If you'd been my daughter, I would have spoiled you, too."

She looked at the coffee table, and Sam thought her ears turned a little pink. When she looked back at him, she was wearing a faint smile. "Later, when I was a band geek in high school, I got better training on them, especially the woodwinds."

"It's hard to picture you as a band geek."

Her smile turned into a self-deprecating one. "I was. Trust me." She got up and walked over to one of the shelves, picking up a framed photo. She walked back over and handed it to him.

He held in a laugh and looked over at her.

She was smirking, an I-told-you-so look on her face.

It was a picture of her in a red-and-white polyester band uniform. She was wearing a goofy-looking matching hat, and her long, black, shoulder-length hair fanned out beneath it. She was smiling, showing a mouthful of braces, and holding a clarinet at the ready. "How old were you?" he asked.

"Um, fifteen, maybe? I don't think I was driving, yet. It's pretty dorky, isn't it?"

He was a little surprised that she had shown it to him, that she was being so open with him, but he was glad that she had. He handed it back to her and said, "I think you look cute."

She rolled her eyes. "Remind me to never ask your opinion on fashion."

He smiled, thinking that the more she revealed of herself, the more he liked her.

Azlin took the picture back to its place on the shelf and walked over by the piano, idly running a finger along the back part of it.

He wanted to ask her to play for him, but he didn't want to push his luck.

As if reading his mind, she glanced over at him, her striking blue eyes intense. "Would you like me to play something?"

His heart rate picked up, and he hesitated, moved by the gift she was offering him. In a husky voice, he finally said, "I thought you'd never ask."

She gave a faint smile that acknowledged the weight of his statement, the history behind it, and then looked away. She scooted the piano bench out and sat on the edge, back straight. She seemed poised to play, but then she glanced at him, and she suddenly seemed a little shy. "Would you, um, like to sit with me?"

He held his breath for a moment, locking eyes with her. "Yeah, I would."

She arched a delicate brow and indicated with a nod that he should join her.

He wheeled himself over to the bench.

She adjusted the bench to where she was sitting more on the edge of one end, making room for him, but she was still at the center of the piano.

Getting from the wheelchair to the bench would be a lot easier for him than getting out of her low-to-the-ground sports car, but he still took her hand when she offered it. He shifted himself from the chair to the bench with relative ease. His thigh was snugly touching hers, and his stomach tightened at being so close to her. "So, you still have enough room?"

She smiled, but there was a touch of melancholy in it. "Yeah. My dad used to sit with me when I played all the time." She gave him a sideways glance. "Of course, he wasn't as big as you."

He gave a half-smile and leaned back, supporting himself with his arms.

She leaned forward, on the very edge of the bench, and touched the smooth ivory keys of the piano for a bit, not really playing anything. Her fingers were so lithe and willowy, and her short, almost-black polished nails added mystery, gave her a vampish quality. Again, she glanced sideways at him. "Any requests?"

He shook his head. "Lady's choice."

She nodded and began to play something classical, a slow, haunting tune that was sort of forlorn and romantic at the same time. She quirked a brow at him, as if asking him if he recognized it.

"Debussy?"

She nodded.

He recognized it from one of the things she'd downloaded onto his iPod. "Clair de Lune," he said with more confidence.

Her dimples deepened, and she seemed pleased that he remembered. "It's one of my favorites," she said softly.

He listened to her play and was again moved and mesmerized by it. The way she played guitar was special, but the way she caressed the keys of the piano was extraordinary. There were no words to describe the beauty of it, and he wondered why hearing her play the piano was different than anyone else he'd ever heard. Was it her technique, some unique way she had of hitting the keys, or was it just because it was her? Maybe a little of both, he decided. Something radiated from her when she played music, something that called out to anyone who was listening.

"My dad loved it when I played the piano," she said, breaking into his thoughts. "It was his favorite of all the instruments. My mom loved them all, like me. She was so easygoing, a complement to my dad's more forceful temperament." She kept playing as she talked, her fingers not missing a note as though it was all second nature to her.

Sam wondered at how the complex melody flowed out of her without her having to think about it.

"When I graduated from OU," she continued, "my parents indulged my rock star fantasy for a while, but after a couple of years of it, they became more insistent that I become involved in the family business." Her voice was calm and even, but there was an undercurrent of something dark and painful.

Sam sat up straighter and began rubbing light circles on her back with his hand, unable to resist touching her in some way, wanting to comfort her.

"The night they died, I had just come home earlier that day from Norman, and George—Dr. Davis—and his wife Patti had just walked in the door. They were good friends of my parents, like family. It was late on a Friday afternoon, and we were all getting ready to go to Dallas. My dad had bought us all tickets to the Dallas Symphony, and we were about to leave. The symphony started at seven, and it was a two-hour drive to get there, so we should have been leaving soon. It was around four in the afternoon, right before we walked out the door, that the fight started." She swallowed convulsively, but otherwise showed no emotion, and still kept playing.

"My dad wasn't one to be discrete about something, especially if he was pissed off. He wasn't necessarily an asshole, but you have to be kind of thick-skinned and not care what people think when you're the CEO of a billion-dollar oil and gas corporation. He was used to getting his way, and, up until then, he and I had never really clashed on anything. I think he was shocked and a little hurt that I was so persistent in pursuing a music career. I think he had dreams of showing me the ropes and my eventually taking over the company someday."

Sam was surprised at her father's lack of understanding. "But he had to have seen your talent, known how good you were."

She nodded and didn't say anything, playing for a bit. Finally, she continued. "He knew, and he was proud of me, but," she sighed, "my family has always been ultra conservative, valuing hard work and scornful of anything frivolous. My grandfather was a wildcatter back in the '50s, and he's the one that struck oil and started the family fortune." She gave Sam a wry look. "I'm sure you probably uncovered that in your research."

He gave a self-effacing smile and nodded in acknowledgment.

"I mean, we're talking about a man who was a millionaire several times over, but he still drove his same old, beat-up '57 Chevy pickup until it literally fell apart. I remember as a little girl what a big deal it was that Granddad finally bought another truck—used, of course. He was a no-nonsense, serious, sort of stern man, and my grandmother was kind of the same. That's the sort of environment my dad was raised in."

She played the last few notes of Claire de Lune and began playing another piece. "This is Chopin," she said absently, and went on with the story as she played. "To my dad, my music was a nice hobby, my ability to play anything I hear a neat parlor trick. He was a meat-and-potatoes kind of man, liked football, was patriotic, and didn't have patience for anyone he considered to be a hippie or, in his words, 'a damn doper.'

"To him, my boyfriend Ramsey fell into the hippie category. Ramsey was artsy and, well, as far from being a preppy frat boy as you could get. My father would have preferred a college boy for me, someone more like himself. He and Ramsey had nothing in common."

She tilted her head slightly to one side and looked at her hands a moment, but it was like she wasn't seeing them. She swallowed hard and then cleared her throat, and her voice was quieter and a little husky when she spoke again. "I had just gotten my tongue pierced right before I came home that weekend, and I'd already had my brow pierced and my tattoo for a while before that. Needless to say, my parents, especially my dad, weren't thrilled about it. The tongue piercing pushed him over the top, and he wouldn't stop harping on it, even after George and Patti had arrived."

She closed her eyes. "My dad blamed Ramsey for all my 'bad' decisions, including the fact that I wanted to be in the band and pursue it seriously." She opened her eyes again, her brow furrowing. "It made me furious that he acted like I didn't have a mind of my own, that I was Ramsey's puppet. He said I had wasted their money at OU, that I didn't know the value of a dollar."

Sam could sense the anger and grief that she was so admirably controlling. "What about your mom?" he asked.

Azlin shrugged. "I think she was more embarrassed that George and Patti were witnessing the whole thing than the reason for the argument. I'm sure she probably thought that after Dad and I cooled down, we could have a civil, family discussion about it later. She tried a few times to get us to calm down, but Dad and I were both beyond the point of being rational."

She played a few more notes, and then her jaw tightened. "I tried to make him understand how important it all was to me, the band and Ramsey. I tried to make him understand the thrill I got from being onstage, the addiction of it, and the fact that we were good—really good. I tried to make him see that we had a shot at making it.

"My dad said it was all nonsense, that Ramsey was a freak and had brainwashed me." Her voice became shaky, and tears spilled from her eyes. "I told him to fuck off, that I hated him." She looked at Sam, incredulous. "I told my _dad_ to fuck off. I'd never even said a curse word in front of him—either of them—before in my life."

Sam rubbed the back of her neck gently, knowing how she felt.

Her breath hitched, and the tears still rolled down her cheeks. "My mom and everyone else in the room were shocked, and she tried to put a hand on my arm to calm me down. I shook her off and told her she was the fucking puppet, that she did everything my dad ever told her to and that I hated her, too."

Sam reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. He wanted to fold her into his arms, but she was still playing, and he sensed that she needed to play, that it was an outlet for all her emotions.

"My dad wouldn't even look at me, he was so enraged, and they left for the symphony without me. George and Patti were following in their car because George had to come back right after the symphony. He had to make rounds at the county hospital the next morning, but my parents were going to stay in the condo we owned in Dallas." Again, she played for a while, not saying anything, as if fortifying herself for what came next. Her emotion poured out in the music.

Sam's stomach knotted, and he felt her anguish, his throat constricting.

She drew in a shaky breath, tears still rolling down her cheeks. "I got a call from George a couple of hours later. He saw the whole thing. My dad was into classic cars, and he was driving a '61 Corvette Stingray. It wasn't much of a match for the semi he hit head-on." She clenched her eyes shut, momentarily staunching the flow of tears, and a choked sob escaped from her. "The car burst into flames, but George swears," she drew in a ragged, painful breath, "that they were killed upon impact, that they...were gone before the fire..." She trailed off, sobbing, and her hands stilled on the keyboard.

Sam drew her into his arms, enveloping her, holding her tightly. He rocked her and kissed the top of her head, murmuring words of comfort. She turned her head into his chest, and he could feel the deep, almost silent sobs racking her body. They stayed that way for a long time, until he finally felt her still.

She sighed and pulled away enough to look up at him, blue eyes red and swollen from crying, nose red. "I think I got snot on your shirt," she said solemnly.

He let out a short, surprised laugh, and tenderly rubbed her cheek with his thumb. "I guess you'll have to buy me another one at the next thrift store you see."

She gave him a rueful smile, wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, and eyed the green, black, and white plaid shirt dubiously. "Sorry, but I think it's a one-of-a-kind."

He chuckled and drew her into another hug, wanting to absorb her pain, somehow take it all away. He hated the thought of her hurting.

He felt her head move against his chest, and she said, "It was my fault. If we hadn't fought—"

"Uh-uh." Sam released her a little until she looked up at him, and he shook his head. "It wasn't your fault. People fight, especially parents and their kids. It's a law of nature, and you couldn't have known what would happen."

She frowned and opened her mouth as if to protest.

He put a finger to her lips to stop her, and then cupped her face in his hands. "Look, I know how you feel. Believe me. But you didn't have the fight alone. Your dad was just as culpable as you are. Do you think your parents would want you to blame yourself?"

She shook her head, not looking exactly convinced, but she didn't argue.

He took in a deep breath. "Azlin, I know about Ramsey, too, about that night on the stage."

"Justin has a big mouth."

"He cares about you."

Her mouth tightened. "He doesn't know what Ramsey said."

Sam waited a moment, and when she just sat there, he said, "You don't have to tell me."

She looked away and shrugged. "It was nothing particularly out of the ordinary, no horrible revelations. He just said that he hated me, that he'd never loved me, that I'd ruined his career, that he never wanted to see me again. I was a spoiled little rich girl that couldn't take care of herself without her doting parents, and I was pathetic." She said it all as if it were no big deal, but when she looked at him, the torment in her eyes was stark and devastating.

Sam's chest tightened, and he folded her into his arms again. "He was a fucking douche bag."

She let out an anguished laugh and pulled away, looking down at her hands that were now in her lap.

Sam left an arm around her shoulders, not willing to lose contact with her.

Her voice was soft and she sounded resigned. "Yeah, he was a douche bag. He's also reason number two that I'm so fucked up."

Sam turned her chin to face him and rubbed his thumb over her lips. "Stop saying that. You're not fucked up."

She rolled her eyes and took his hand away from her mouth, holding onto it and giving it a squeeze. "I slept in a supply closet for five years," she challenged.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Okay. Maybe that's a little odd."

"I've been working as a janitor even though I'm a billionaire."

"So you're a little eccentric." He thought about it a moment and had to ask. "Uh, why exactly did you do that?"

She laughed and then shrugged. "I don't know, really. I liked the hours. It kept me busy late at night when I was the loneliest." She looked around, taking in the room. "This house is too big and holds too many memories for just me. Plus, I—," she swallowed, "—I couldn't play music anymore, but I could at least _listen_ to it, you know, on my iPod while I was working."

"I know," he said dryly.

Her eyes locked with his, and she looked a little mischievous. "You think I'm just eccentric? I think it's pretty fucked up that I lusted after a guy for seven months who was in a _coma_," she confessed.

Sam's pulse quickened, and he felt a flutter in his stomach. He bent his head down and kissed her lips very tenderly. "I don't think..." another kiss, "...that's fucked up."

She broke the kiss and looked away.

He closed his eyes, wanting her so badly every cell in his body seemed to writhe. He suddenly felt her shaking and opened his eyes.

"I don't know if I can do this, Sam." She swallowed and furrowed her brows. "I'm so afraid," she said, and her eyes were stunning and intense. "You have the potential to tear me apart."

"I will never hurt you, Azlin. I—"

She shook her head, and there was raw despair in her voice. "Everyone I love leaves me."

He reached up and took her face in his hands. "I promise I won't leave you."

She looked skeptical. "You can't promise that."

He kissed her, teasing her lips with his tongue. "I promise."

"It's not practical."

He drew back and looked into her eyes, trying to convey how sincere he was. "I promise."

She cocked her head to one side and said, "You're using that look on me."

He grinned and knew without a doubt that he was in love with her. "I promise that nothing is ever going to make me leave you. You'll get sick of having me around."

"I don't think so," she said, and her eyes held a fiery look that women had been giving men since Adam and Eve. This time, she kissed _him_, her tongue probing his mouth.

He opened his mouth to take her in, tasted the metal stud that pierced her tongue, felt the moist warmth of her mouth, and actually groaned with the pleasure it spiked in him. She took his breath away.

He wouldn't let himself think about what he'd just promised, that it was probably impossible knowing what he knew, that there were forces beyond his control. He wanted to hope for happiness instead, wanted to believe that he deserved a second chance, that he deserved Azlin. He wouldn't let destiny or a few deranged angels make a liar out of him. He'd thwarted them before, and he could do it again if he had to.

He wouldn't let himself think about Dean and how his brother would fit into everything. He would make it all work somehow. He had to. He'd promised.

**SWDWSWDW**

The heat from Sam's mouth was searing Azlin, igniting a desire in her that was all-consuming and demanding. This was what she had been craving for so long—Sam's touch, his mouth on hers, his arms around her, everything that was Sam—and she wanted to be a part of him. She wanted him to be a part of her.

She broke away from his mouth enough to say, "Come with me," and kissed him hungrily again. Then, she took his hand, pulled him up off the bench, and led him the few steps over to the large leather couch.

He sat down, and she straddled his lap, resting on her knees. She took off her black shirt and threw it on the floor. He began to undo the clasp of her bra and released it without any trouble, as if he'd done it many times before. She started unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers trembling, not getting it done fast enough.

When she got it unbuttoned, he quickly shrugged out of his shirt and threw it on the floor where it joined hers, and she jerked off her bra, completing the pile.

She ran her fingers along his smooth chest, loving the feel of his bare, hot skin, and bent down to kiss his collarbone and the curvy place where his neck and shoulder met.

He groaned, and she could feel his hands on her back, his long fingers caressing her, and then she felt them make their way to her breasts, cupping them and teasing her nipples. Then his tongue was there, doing the same, the flicking movement making her arch against him like a cat. Waves of pleasure rippled through her.

She ran her fingers through his thick hair, and when she couldn't stand it anymore, when the need was consuming her, she pulled his head back and kissed him passionately, unable to get enough of him, seeking fulfillment. She pushed his shoulders, still kissing him but telling him without words that she wanted him to lie down.

The sofa was large, wide enough to accommodate Sam although his feet hung off the end, and when he was lying down, she continued to explore his body, trailing kisses down his neck, his chest, over his ribs, down to his flat belly and the tender area just above his hips. When she was there, she stopped and looked up at him.

She saw heat and arousal in his eyes that echoed her own, and she began to unbutton the fly of his jeans.

He put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her.

She looked up at him again, and he seemed suddenly worried, conflicted. She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but something was holding him back. She made it back up to his mouth, kissed his lips, and whispered, "What's wrong?"

He drew in a shaky breath, and his tone was ragged with desire. "I want you, Azlin. God knows I do, but..."

"But?" she prompted and kissed a tiny mole on his neck. He didn't say anything, and she suddenly felt self-conscious, like maybe she'd been too brazen. She raised up, bracing herself, and said, "Did I...Is it too much, I mean, for a first date?"

He gave a throaty laugh that morphed into a groan. "No. It's just..."

She was growing concerned. "What?"

He closed his eyes, and his forehead creased. "It's been a long time. The coma—I don't know if—"

She was instantly relieved, understanding his fear. "Sam?" She wiggled her hips and felt the hardness of him through her jeans. He seemed to grow even harder in reaction to her movement. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

He blew a harsh breath and moaned. "Oh, God. It's just—what if—"

She put a finger on his lips. "It's okay," she said. "Please, let's just try. It's been a long time for me, too."

His mossy eyes darkened then, and he pulled her fiercely to him, kissing her hard and deep. They somehow got their jeans, boots, and underwear off in a tangle of frenzied movement, and there was no turning back.

She took him inside her, filling herself with him, and they were one. She shivered, pressing against him, and felt pulsations of pleasure from him that matched her own. It was earth-moving and wonderful, an explosion of fire and white-hot passion, and she gave herself to him, every part of herself—heart, body, and soul. He possessed her now, and, God, how she loved him. Her shell cracked and shattered. Her armor was gone.

She would be safe with him, though, because he was honorable and strong, kind and good. He was _Sam,_ and he had promised.

_**TBC**_


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: There's a tad of disturbing imagery in this, so the squeamish may want to take heed. I'm thinking if you're a fan of SPN, though, you're probably used to it by now. Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!**

**Chapter 16**

Sam jerked awake and blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim room, the only illumination the blue glow of the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 4:18 a.m. Azlin was sleeping—if you could call it that—next to him in the bed, and they were in her bedroom upstairs in the ranch house. He'd been sleeping there for several weeks, ever since they'd decided to ditch the nobly proper yet impossible idea of him sleeping in the guesthouse. They couldn't be away from each other for five minutes, let alone an entire night.

She was radiating heat, and he could see a light sheen of sweat on her forehead. She moaned again, thrashing, her face drawn in horror, and his gut clenched in anticipation of what was coming. He sat up and barely had time to reassure himself that the water and her medication were on the nightstand where they always were, just in case, when she started screaming.

Her screams were piercing, terrifying, disturbing—full of excruciating pain and horror—and they ripped through his soul. No human should ever make such a sound, and it tore him apart that they came from Azlin and that there was nothing he could do to stop them, nothing he could do to stop the nightmares. At least he could be there in the aftermath. The thought that she had endured these appalling nightmares for years by herself brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed as he gripped her shoulders, trying to shake her awake. "Azlin, baby, wake up."

She kept shrieking, still in the throes of the ghastly dream.

He pulled her up into his arms, hugging her tightly and rocking her. "Azlin, wake up. It's me, Sam. Shh. It's okay."

She stopped the screams, but he could feel her shaking violently, and she began to take ragged, sobbing breaths. He pulled back to see her face, and his heart broke at the look he saw there. Her eyes were wide, almost like she was in a trance, not seeing him, and she was crying hysterically. She was seeing something so horrible it was beyond words.

He took her face in his hands. "Azlin," he coaxed with urgency, "look at me. It's Sam. It's okay. It's not real."

Her eyes looked around wildly, and she was starting to struggle for breaths, fighting for air.

He was scared that if he couldn't get her to come to awareness soon and take her medicine, she'd pass out. He tenderly brushed her short, damp hair off of her forehead with one hand, still holding her shoulder with his other, and gave her another shake. "Azlin! Come on, baby. Wake up for me."

Her eyes seemed to come more into focus then, and in between hitched breaths, she managed to gasp, "Sam?"

He knew that was his cue, that she was in the present, and he hastily shook out a Xanax from the bottle of pills and grabbed an unopened Evian from the nightstand. He popped the small pink tablet into her mouth and said, "Chew this." It wasn't normally supposed to be chewed, but it would infiltrate her system quicker if she did.

He didn't wait for her to finish. He let the Evian fall next to them on the bed and enfolded her in his arms, her head on his chest, feeling her jaw working as she chewed the pill. She was still jerking with the sobs, trying to breathe, and he prayed the pill would kick in quickly and that she wouldn't choke on it in her current state.

"They were burning!" she keened. "They were burning!"

"Shh," Sam comforted. "It's not real."

"It is real!" she screeched. "They were burning! My parents were on fire!" She said the last on a jagged sob, her throat sounding swollen from all the crying. "I saw...my mom's skin—" She broke off on another racking sob, and her breath caught on a high-pitched wheezing sound.

Sam clenched his eyes closed and began to rock her again, imagining the horrible scene playing out in her head, trying not to think of Jessica or his mom. "Shh." He kept saying it over and over, knowing that nothing he did or said would help until the medicine kicked in.

They stayed that way for a long time, and finally the gut-wrenching wails slowed to a more normal crying and then to soft hiccups and then nothing. The tension left her body, and her breathing returned to normal. Sam continued to rock her until she gave him a tight squeeze, a silent thank-you for his comfort, and then she pulled away.

Sam switched on the small bedside lamp in time to see a sour expression on her tear-stained face that would have been comical under different circumstances. He handed her the bottled water, knowing she was tasting the bitter tablet she'd chewed. They'd been through all this twice before, but this time seemed worse than the others.

She folded her legs Indian style, facing him, and unscrewed the cap. She took a swig and sat there, shoulders a little slumped, not looking at him, picking at the label. She looked girlish in the glow of the lamp, sitting there in her white cotton tank and black-and-white, polka-dot pajama shorts, and she looked vulnerable.

Sam leaned over and lifted her chin with his fingers, kissing her lightly on the lips.

She closed her eyes, as if relishing the kiss, and then pulled back and smiled a little sheepishly. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

His heart swelled with love for her, and he smiled at her attempt at humor. "Are you okay?"

She looked down and nodded.

He cleared his throat. "So, was this one worse than the others?"

She shrugged.

"How often do you have them?"

She sighed, and when she spoke, she sounded a little hoarse. "I don't know. Sometimes they're more frequent; sometimes I've gone a year without having one."

"They're just starting up? You haven't had any with me until recently."

She shrugged again. "I don't keep track of them," she said evasively.

He found that hard to believe. "Do you know what triggers them?"

She took another swig from the water bottle, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know, Sam."

But he suspected she had an idea. "Azlin, are you worried or upset about something? Is there something that I—"

"No. Everything's fine." She met his eyes and smiled, but there was something subtle in her expression he couldn't read. She sat the water on the nightstand on her side of the bed and lay down with her back to him. He heard her yawn as she pulled the covers back up. "Medicine's really kicking in," she said sleepily. It was an Azlin-style invitation for him to join her, that she didn't want to talk anymore.

He decided to let it go for now and turned off the lamp. He lay down behind her, snuggling under the covers with her, and spooned her into his body, pulling her close. "I love you," he said softly into her ear. "You can tell me anything."

She tensed for a fleeting second and then grabbed his hand and pulled it to her lips, kissing the knuckle of his thumb.

It didn't bother him that she never said she loved him back. He knew it was hard for her to say it, and he knew why. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her past, like she loved him but was afraid if she said it, it would jinx things. He knew how she felt about him, felt it in every touch and every kiss she gave him, and he would give her all the time in the world to say it.

There was something going on with her, though, and if it was bad enough to trigger these god-awful nightmares, he was going to find out what it was.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin felt safe and warm cocooned next to Sam's body, pretending to sleep. She could feel his hard chest against her back, the hard muscles of his thighs touching the backs of her legs. He was growing stronger exponentially, now, his muscles beginning to bulge and grow solid. He'd gone from lanky to athletic and was fast approaching bona fide hunk territory.

After the first night they'd been together, he'd spent another month at the hospital, until he reached the point of no longer needing a wheelchair. They had continued to get to know each other while he was still at the center, continuing their Saturday night dates, and their relationship grew closer as quickly as his strength seemed to grow. She slacked off in taking care of her business responsibilities during the day in order to spend time with him at the hospital when she was off from her housekeeping job, and the day he was released from the center was the last day of her illustrious career as a janitor.

A week before his release, Dean and Bobby had visited him, and whatever they discussed behind the closed door of his room, it was decided that Sam would take Azlin up on her offer to let him continue his rehab at her house. He could stay in the guesthouse and use the indoor and outdoor pools and private gym on the property to continue to strengthen.

On the day he got his walking papers, Francine came into Sam's room. Her bleached-blond hair was teased to a fearful height, and she was wearing street clothes—a tight black top with western-style patterns accented by red sequins, tight jeans, and red cowboy boots. She had come in to see him off, even though it was the morning and it wasn't her shift. She walked into his room pushing a wheelchair for him to ride in to the front entrance, the same policy as just about every other hospital in the country. Her face was beaming with pride, and her eyes were moist with unshed tears. "I'm gonna miss you, sugar," she said to Sam and added in a teasing tone, "but I hope I never see you again."

Sam, who was sitting on the bed, pulled on his boots and stood, towering over her. He filled out his clothes better now, his jeans and subtly-striped, maroon-and-gray shirt looking more like they belonged on him. He embraced her in a big bear hug and said, "You can't get rid of me that easily." His shaggy hair curled up a bit at his collar, and his face scrunched as he hugged her.

Azlin, who had been helping him pack miscellaneous items into an extra suitcase she'd brought from home, watched the touching scene, her heart in her throat. Francine and Sam had forged a special bond, almost like mother and son, and she knew Sam would miss Francine as much as Francine would miss him.

He pulled back, his arms still on her shoulders, and smiled.

Francine choked out a little laugh and wiped tears from her eyes.

"I'll keep in touch," he promised, his voice thick with emotion.

"You better, unless you want a whoopin'," she said with mock severity.

He laughed and shook his head at the thought. He was almost twice as big as she was. He gave her another short, fierce hug and then went over and zipped his duffel that was sitting on the bed.

Francine gave Azlin a wink and a big, knowing smile. She hadn't been exactly subtle in conveying how thrilled she was that Azlin and Sam were together. She had given Azlin one piece of sage advice whenever she'd found out. "Don't boss him around, hon. Make him think everything's all his idea."

Azlin had already zipped the suitcase, and it looked like everything was ready to go.

Francine grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and indicated for Sam to sit. "You ready, sugar?"

Sam eyed it with distaste. "I'm not getting in that thing."

Francine looked sympathetic. "I know, hon, but it's hospital policy."

He shook his head, jaw set, brows furrowed in that serious Sam look. "No way."

Francine looked to Azlin for help.

Azlin saw the stubborn look on Sam's face and knew the chances of them making him ride in the wheelchair were slim to none. She quirked a brow at him. "If we don't make you ride in it, are you gonna sue us if you fall and hurt yourself on the way to the front door?"

His mouth twitched and his dimples worked a bit, but he kept his expression serious. "I'm gonna sue you for mental anguish if you make me ride in that friggin' wheelchair."

Azlin looked at Francine and shrugged.

Francine grinned and shrugged back, and the matter was settled.

As Sam walked down the corridors of the hospital, duffel slung over one shoulder, he shook hands with everyone that had been a part of his life for the coma and his rehab. He shook hands with Karl, and the stoic Swede had surprised Sam by pulling him into a quick, hearty embrace.

George looked up at Sam in wonder and then shook Sam's hand, clapping him good-naturedly on the back with his other. "Sam, you're an amazing young man."

Sam looked a little embarrassed at the praise. "Thanks, Doc. Couldn't have done it without you."

George looked skeptical. "You're stubborn as a mule. You'd have figured something out."

Sam dimpled up, not arguing.

Chad had also come just to see Sam off, and Sam said to him, "I'll see you around," knowing that Chad would be at Azlin's house to play guitar with her and also at the band's gigs, now that Azlin sat in with them a lot.

"Can I borrow twenty bucks?" said Chad with mock sincerity, holding out his hand, palm up.

Sam rolled his eyes, and so did Azlin. It was a way that Chad ribbed Sam now that Sam was dating Azlin, implying Sam was now rolling in the dough.

Sam grabbed Chad's outstretched hand and shook it high-five style. "Thanks, man, for everything."

Chad looked moved, the emotional expression on his face at odds with his goofy, lime-colored hair. He cleared his throat and said, "Sure, dude."

As Sam and Azlin walked away, Chad yelled, "Does that mean you'd be more amenable to a hundred?"

Azlin flipped him off.

Now, as she lay there thinking, she felt Sam's even, warm breath tickle her ear and knew he'd fallen asleep, his large hand lax and resting protectively on top of hers. She loved the length of his tapering fingers, admired their strength and elegance.

He had been in the coma for seven months and had endured another six and a half months of rehab. George had said it was a miracle that it had only taken that long. Sam had spent almost fourteen months of his life in a hospital, and now he was here with her.

The plan had been that he would live in the guesthouse while he was at "Southfork" because, after all, he was a gentleman, and she wasn't a total slut. That had lasted less than a week, and they'd come to the conclusion that life was too short, that maybe he wasn't that much of a gentleman, that maybe she was pretty slutty after all.

He spent his days working hard to get his body back to what it was before the coma, and there were times when he was mysterious about it, preferring to train where no one could see. She didn't push him on it, but he was usually so open about everything unless it had to do with his "job" that his secretiveness made her uneasy. She tried to ignore it. Everything else seemed so perfect.

When he wasn't training, he would help her and her administrative assistant Traci sort through the various charities and other organizations that Azlin's philanthropic foundation dealt with. He had a good head for numbers and business and was interested in the issues she ran into dealing with the board of trustees for the oil company, which was based in Tulsa, and which she handled by numerous telephone and conference calls each day.

His interest in her affairs wasn't suspicious to her, and despite her ignorance of a large chunk of his life, she trusted him. Her financial advisers would go ballistic if they knew. They would say that she shouldn't let him be privy to so many details of her fortune, but she couldn't reconcile an image of a gold digger or an embezzler with the Sam she knew. Besides, she would gladly hand over all of it to him as long as he stayed with her. She loved him that much, and the money meant nothing to her.

He seemed to genuinely enjoy the business side of things and attacked it in an intelligent, logical manner. She liked having him involved, since it seemed the stuff she hated to deal with was like a puzzle to him that he took pleasure in unlocking. He was the perfect left brain to her right brain.

Two months ago, when he'd just gotten out of the hospital, they would take walks together, and she showed him around the ranch property. He could walk about a fourth of a mile, and then he'd be done for the day. That had been the first week.

Each week, his strength and stamina grew amazingly fast. Now, eight weeks later, he was jogging, and he dragged Azlin with him, although she'd never been into health and exercise in her life. The walks had been romantic, but the jogs sucked. Today, she hadn't been able to keep up with him, and he'd playfully run ahead of her. She flipped him off in jest for taking off, and he laughed and came back for her, picking her up in a bear hug and kissing her soundly until she was breathless from something else besides the running.

He loved the animals on the ranch, especially the three dogs—a golden retriever named Duke in particular—and the dogs loved him back. He was intrigued by the horses and the fact that she had a barn full of Thoroughbreds and Quarter Horses that nobody but the stable grooms rode.

She shrugged when he'd brought it up one evening while they were out for a leisurely stroll, walking by the barn.

"They were my parents' horses," she replied. "I was thrown when I was little, and it scared the shit out of me. I was never into horses after that."

"Why do you keep them?"

"Because Quintero and Wyatt wouldn't have jobs if I got rid of them. I like the grooms, not the horses."

Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

She loved him for his understanding, for the fact that he didn't tell her that it was crazy and a waste of money to keep the horses or the one-hundred head of cattle that roamed the ranch. She suspected he understood on a deeper level that she couldn't get rid of the horses mainly because they'd belonged to her parents. Her dad especially had loved them. He would have been a cowboy in another lifetime.

She eyed Sam and said, "You should get Quintero to teach you to ride. He can do that and teach you Spanish at the same time."

"I had freshman Spanish at Stanford."

"Quintero will have you speaking it fluently in no time and riding like Zorro. Tell him you want a Thoroughbred, though. They're bigger." She looked up at his tall frame and teased, "I think your feet will drag the ground if you get on a Quarter Horse."

He'd nudged her playfully on the arm and, later, he'd taken her up on her suggestion. Riding was good exercise for his leg muscles, and he struck up a fast friendship with both Quintero and Wyatt.

She was watching Sam canter around the large paddock area one sunny afternoon on a large, dappled-gray Thoroughbred when Quintero sidled up next to her, chewing idly on a toothpick. "Your boyfriend is a quick learner, mi hija." The swarthy, older Mexican was getting on in years, but he was still fit and wiry, and he was a genius with horses. He'd worked for the ranch ever since Azlin could remember.

She looked at Sam and smiled like a besotted milkmaid, not even trying to hide her pride in the graceful way he rode the horse. "He's good, isn't he?"

"Yes. He's a good rider, but he's also a quick learner of Espanish," he said in his melodious accent. He gave her a sidelong glance. "He knows Latin, too."

"He knows Latin?"

Quintero nodded. "Si. _Very_ well, especially having to do with the Church."

"You mean, like, Mass?"

He eyed her sagely. "Si. He actually knows what the words mean, probably better than most Catholics, and he ain't no Catholic."

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "He's a very smart man. We've had some, eh, intriguing conversations."

It was one more tidbit about Sam she'd filed away in her mind.

So Sam knew Latin, she thought as she lay awake, despite the relaxing effects of the drug she'd taken for the nightmare. Why did that make her uneasy? It made perfect sense. He'd been pre-law at Stanford, and there were lots of Latin terms in law. The only problem was, she didn't think there were a lot of Latin law terms said in a Catholic Mass.

It wasn't a big deal by itself, but it was one more thing about him that was a mystery, that she instinctively knew not to ask him about because he would have to clam up or try to steer the conversation into a safe zone, a zone that didn't involve his past, a zone that wasn't exactly a lie but wasn't the truth, either. She didn't bring things like this up because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable or wary around her. She didn't want him to feel like he constantly had to watch what he said.

It was the night she'd found out about the Latin that she'd had the first nightmare she'd had in a long time. Then, when she'd found out Dean and Bobby were coming for a visit soon, she'd had two more nightmares—one a week ago, and the one tonight.

She couldn't shake a feeling of foreboding, that things were going too well with Sam, that something from his past was going to ruin things. She wasn't stupid. There was something terrible in his history, something he was afraid to tell her about. She just hoped in time he would be able to trust her enough to talk about it.

In the meantime, she couldn't stop herself from imagining what could be so horrible. Of course, there'd been the secret government agency theory and the bounty hunter theory, but, lately, her wild imagination had come up with things much more sinister. Maybe he had murdered somebody. But he was so gentle, so kind. She couldn't fathom him killing someone, but maybe it had been self-defense.

Maybe he'd felt so guilty about it he'd had some sort of seizure and it had caused the coma. It didn't make sense, though, since none of his doctors ever found any evidence of brain damage on his brain scans. Maybe the coma had been some kind of weird form of catatonia because he hadn't been able to deal with the terrible guilt. Yeah, right. Now she was Sigmund Freud.

Maybe _Dean_ had murdered someone, and Sam had helped him cover it up. It seemed plausible. He and Dean were very close, talked almost every day. Maybe Sam had helped him cover it up and felt guilty about it. Sam often brooded after he talked to Dean. Maybe that's why Dean was coming. The law was about to catch up with them, and he was coming to warn Sam, to tell him that they needed to go into hiding somewhere. As if they weren't in hiding already. Sam hadn't used his real last name in at least a year and a half.

Whatever scenario she came up with, they all ended the same way. He would have to leave, and she would be all alone without him. She would be hollow again, less than human, the way she'd felt when she'd lost her parents, the way she'd felt when Ramsey had left her. But Sam had promised her that he wouldn't leave, and nestled in his arms right now, protected by his long, powerful body, she almost believed him.

**SWDWSWDW**

Sam found Azlin in the study, as was usual this time of day. She was frowning over a spreadsheet, clicking her tongue against her teeth like she often did when in deep thought, and he smiled to himself. Finance definitely wasn't her forte, and she hated accounting, but she could do it because she was incredibly smart. She'd managed to run her foundation and be an active member on the board of her family's oil company, although he knew she hated every minute of it.

She was a musician, an artist, not a business tycoon, but she was also a workaholic. She'd managed to do it all since she'd moved back to Dumas, except she'd tried to bury the artist part of herself along with the pain from the past. He marveled that she'd led a double life for so long, businesswoman and philanthropist by day, frigging janitor by night.

She was crazy, all right, but not the kind of crazy _she_ thought she was. She was quirky and eccentric, maybe a little unorthodox, but she was an amazing person, and he was proud of her and admired her. She'd done it all to keep her mind occupied so she wouldn't feel the loneliness and the pain of loss, but, still, the schedule she'd kept would have worn out a lesser woman—or man.

She'd let everyone misjudge her, had hidden her true self because she didn't want to get close to anyone. Except for a few people who knew about her past, they all thought she was strange and aloof, kind of a bitch, the rich girl wasting her life as a housekeeper, when all the while she'd been working with Traci in an office out of Traci's house because she couldn't stand the memories at her own home. No one even knew about Traci, that Traci was basically Azlin's right hand and that she'd helped Azlin tremendously during the month that Azlin had spent so much time trying to help Sam come out of the coma. Azlin had only recently decided to move her office to the study at the ranch so she could be near Sam, and he was glad that she seemed to finally be coming to terms with her parents' death, with both the good and the bad memories.

Azlin hadn't been wasting her life, just her gift. It hurt him that she'd gone so long without playing music. Music was like breathing to her, and it was such a travesty that she'd abandoned it, not just for her sake, but for the rest of the world that had been deprived of it, too. Now that she wasn't working evenings at the center anymore, she played a lot. They spent hours in the music room late in the evenings after dinner, Azlin playing whatever instrument she felt moved to play at the moment, and Sam listening and reading one of the books from the extensive library in the house until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then he'd start to kiss her, and one thing would lead to another, and they'd end up in bed.

Chad came over often on Sunday afternoons, and he and Azlin would work on new songs for the band. She'd been playing with them more and more, and Justin had agreed to manage the band. She'd played several gigs with them both in Dallas and Oklahoma City, and although she would never admit it openly, Sam knew she loved it. He didn't like that Justin was in the picture more, but the guy did know the music business. Still, Sam couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something about Justin that put his hunting instincts on edge. Maybe it was just jealousy, but Sam didn't like the expression on Justin's face whenever he watched Azlin onstage. Could Sam really blame him, though? Half the guys in the crowd at her shows fell in love with her.

He leaned quietly on the doorjamb, hands in his jeans pockets, and waited for her to notice him. He'd finished his training for the day, and it was late afternoon, almost dinnertime. He'd just taken a shower and was wishing he'd talked Azlin into taking one with him. She looked like she needed a break.

She blew out a frustrated breath, stirring a wisp of short black hair on her forehead. Her fine, alabaster skin glowed in the waning sun filtered by the large window of the study, and she looked stunningly beautiful. He felt scarce of breath at the sight of her, and he was content just to watch her, the way her perfectly-shaped brows furrowed sometimes as she read, the way her simple, light-blue, v-neck shirt accentuated her eyes, the way her dimples showed when she quirked her mouth in thought, the sure way she wrote with her pen.

She stilled for a fraction of a second, and Sam knew in the instant before she looked up that, although he hadn't made a sound, she sensed his presence. She always seemed so attuned to him, like he was one of the songs that was ingrained in her soul.

"Hi," she said, a tired smile on her face. Her eyes lingered on him, drinking him in.

He felt his pulse quicken. "Need some help?"

She smacked her pen down on top of the cluster of spreadsheets on the desk and leaned back in the large brown leather chair she sat in. Her smile turned playfully seductive. "Need somethin'," she answered.

Sam pushed away from the doorjamb. He was barefoot, and he felt first smooth hardwood and then the plush, thickly-padded, oriental rug under his feet as he made his way over to her. The room was masculine with it's rich, oak judge's paneling covering every inch of wall and ceiling and the massive mahogany desk where she was sitting. Two leather club chairs sat on the other side of the desk from her. It looked like the kind of room where men had port after dinner and smoked cigars. She looked out of place in it, casual and feminine and young, but he knew looks were deceiving. She was shrewd and intelligent, and he knew from hearing some of the conference calls she had with the other board members of Browne Corp that she wasn't easily intimidated and had earned their respect.

When he reached her, he stood behind her chair and massaged her shoulders.

She let her head fall forward a little, exposing the nape of her neck.

He bent down and kissed the tiny star there, still massaging her shoulders, and then made his way with soft nibbles over behind her left ear.

She sighed with pleasure, tilting her head a bit to give him easier access.

"Is Traci gone for the day?" he asked, his voice husky.

She closed her eyes. "Mm-hm," she confirmed.

"Wanna take a break?" he said between kisses.

She groaned in frustration. "More than anything, believe me, but I can't. I've got to get through these spreadsheets," her breath hitched on another sigh as he nibbled her ear, "and read the report on the WebbCo acquisition—oh, God—before tomorrow morning." She pulled away from him and twisted to look up at him, a rueful expression on her face. "Okay. You're gonna have to stop that. You're turning my brain to mush."

He bent down and kissed her deeply. Her tongue tickled the top of his mouth, and he felt a jolt of desire course through his body.

She seemed to be lost in the kiss for a moment, but then leaned away slightly. Eyes a little glazed, she blinked to regain focus and gave a faint smile of apology. "The board's, um, going to discuss it and vote on it."

He gave her another kiss on the lips and pulled back, realizing she was in businesswoman mode, and moved to half-sit on the edge of the desk facing her, bracing himself with his hands on either side.

She swiveled her chair to face him and leaned back, grimacing. "It's a really big deal. I can't blow it off."

Sam understood, but he didn't like how tired she looked. It was more than just normal fatigue from work. "You had another nightmare last night."

Her expression went instantly neutral, kind of guarded, but she shrugged as if it were unimportant. "I'm sorry I keep waking you."

"Don't be ridiculous." He reached for her hand and pulled her up out of the chair into a standing position in front of him and then rested his arms on her shoulders, holding her in a loose embrace. They were almost eye level with each other because he was lounging on the desk, but she seemed hesitant to meet his gaze. He waited until she finally gave him her full attention and said, "Tell me what's bothering you."

She looked down, her shoulders too stiff, her hands frozen in place on either side of his waist. When she looked back up at him, he saw that aloof mask on her face that he hadn't seen in a while. "It's just work, Sam," she said. "There's a lot going on right now. I'm a little stressed."

He frowned, determined to get to the bottom of what was upsetting her. She'd had two of the horrible nightmares within two days of each other. They were more frequent, and they were taking a toll on her.

Her mouth curved into a small smile, and she wrapped her arms loosely around his neck. "Don't give me that look."

"Don't tell me it's just work."

Her smile flattened. "Okay. What should I tell you?"

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," she said, and looked down at the pile of spreadsheets. "I need to get back to work."

He shook his head. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."

With a concentrated stare, she said, "Trust me. You don't want to get into this."

"I do," he countered.

There was a little tick in her jaw, and she was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her tone became slightly defiant. "Okay. Fine." She pulled away from him and crossed her arms over her chest. "Why do you know Latin so well?"

He gave a nervous laugh, bracing himself again on the desk, uncertain where she was going with this. "Why would you ask me that? Lots of people know Latin. I was pre-law."

"True," she said, and paused, as though debating whether to go on. Finally, she said, "Are you religious?"

He didn't know how to answer that. Did he believe there was a God? Yes. Considering the things he'd seen, there was no doubt. But did he believe _in _God? He had once, long ago. He'd had faith, had even prayed, but then he'd thought himself so tainted that he'd given up, had thought himself beyond redemption. And God hadn't exactly done anything to make his presence known.

Apparently, Sam took too long to answer, because she said, "Never mind." She eyed him with speculation and said, "Quintero said your knowledge of Latin goes way beyond the law, that you know it very well, like even all the religious rites and stuff."

He felt a little like a defendant being grilled on a witness stand. He was getting slightly nauseous and felt the palms of his hands go clammy.

She was relentless. "Do you use it in your job? You know, the one where you do things that are illegal to help save lives?"

He felt the muscles in his neck tense, felt his jaw go rigid. "Yes."

She nodded and said with deliberation, "Tell me about your past, about your job. Tell me what you and Dean and your uncle are into."

Cautiously, he said, "What does that have to do with your nightmares?"

She gave an exasperated laugh and turned away from him, grasping her hair, and then turned back to him, a guttural noise of frustration coming from her throat. She fisted her hands at her sides. "One of the things that causes the nightmares is anxiety, Sam, and it's driving me fucking crazy, the guessing. I see you after you talk to Dean. I know something serious is going down." She began to gesture with her hands. "You brood, and you worry, and you clam up after you talk to him. Then, when you're with me, you try to hide it, but I can see that you're not all there, that you're still thinking about whatever you talked about with him."

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach ratcheted up a notch.

She walked away from him and began to pace. "I've thought of probably hundreds of scenarios. Maybe you're bounty hunters. That actually makes the most sense. You have to do things outside the law sometimes to catch the evil criminals that have jumped bail. You're protecting society from the bad guys, so you're saving lives. I mean, I'm assuming you bring murderers and rapists in—right?—so it's really noble of you." She pierced him with those eyes of hers. "It almost fits, but not quite." She paused. "That's not it, is it, Sam?" It was more of a statement than a question.

He swallowed hard. "No."

She folded her arms again and stopped pacing, her voice quieter. "No, it's not. Because why would you hide that? Why would being a bounty hunter be a big secret, and why would you have to change your name because of it?" Her voice crescendoed. "And why would you need to know Latin?"

He didn't want to answer, didn't want her to know of the horrors that existed. His entire body felt strangely numb.

She gave a short, caustic laugh. "So, my next theory is that you killed someone, and you felt so guilty about it and were so traumatized that you fell into the coma—which is probably totally implausible and any self-respecting psychiatrist would laugh it off the planet. But, anyway, you're on the lam, so you have to go by an alias." She shook her head slowly, like she was refuting her own theory. "But the problem with that is, I can't picture you as a murderer. You're so sensitive and compassionate and wonderful, and I—" She stopped abruptly and swallowed.

A chill ran down Sam's spine. He thought back to the murder of the hunter Steve Wandell that he had committed when Meg had possessed him and the fact that, during the year and a half he had no soul, he'd tried to kill Bobby and done God only knew what other unspeakable acts. He literally hadn't been himself, but the reasons why wouldn't hold up in a court of law, and he was terrified it wouldn't hold water with Azlin, either. It had still been _his_ body, _his_ hands.

"But, again," she went on, "where does the Latin come in, and why do you train in secret sometimes?"

His jaw turned to steel, and he coudln't look at her.

"Shall I go on? Would you like to hear the one about the secret government agency?"

"No."

"I suppose I could hire a private investigator. I have a private security company at my disposal. I thought about having them investigate you and Dean many times before you woke from the coma, but I didn't want to care, told myself it was none of my business.

Now that I know you, now that I—well, it just seems kind of underhanded, like I shouldn't have to, you know? So, I keep hoping the nightmares will go away eventually, that I'll get used to this mystery side of you, and it won't bother me anymore." She walked over close to him again, arms still folded protectively over her chest. Her tone was softer, almost coaxing. "But I'm scared, Sam, of what's coming after you. I have nightmares because I know something is wrong, and it's so bad that you're afraid to tell me. I'm afraid it's going to take you away from me."

He folded his own arms over his chest and sighed deeply, closing his eyes.

"Just tell me, Sam. Whatever it is—"

"You won't believe me," he said, and he clenched his eyes shut against the tide of angst washing through him.

She put her hands tenderly on his face, and he opened his eyes and saw the raw emotion on her face. He could see how much she loved him. She didn't need to say it. With conviction, she said, "If you tell me the sky is falling, I will believe it."

But he knew she wouldn't. He was going to tell her, knew now that he had to, but he was afraid of losing her, afraid she would think he was crazy, no matter how much she loved him. He wanted more time with her, more time to convince her that he was sane, that it was the world that was crazy, not him.

But he couldn't deny her any longer. She needed to know what she was getting into, and he realized that he'd been selfish, that he'd been in denial, that Justin had been right. He should have told Azlin from the get-go about his past and about hunting.

Dean and Bobby would be there in two days. They were coming to see how he was doing, to see if he was strong enough to hunt again, although they hadn't said that in so many words. Sam knew he was ready, that he could go back if they really needed him. What the hell had he been thinking? It had been easy to pursue Azlin when he'd still been in the hospital. The true nature of his life hadn't seemed real. He'd been in denial, thinking that he'd paid his dues, that he deserved a chance at a real life. And, God help him, he'd promised Azlin he wouldn't leave her, but what if he didn't have a choice? What if Dean and Bobby needed him? If he had to leave, though, he would come back, if she'd let him. He didn't think he could live without her. He'd find a way, he thought desperately. They'd work something out.

Feeling as though he was about to jump off the roof of the Empire State Building, he gently removed her hands from his face and kissed the palm of each one and then lifted his eyes again. His throat narrowed painfully, and his voice came out rough. "Azlin," he said, holding her gaze with intensity, "do you believe in ghosts?"

_**TBC**_


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: Surprise! I felt bad about the cliffie in the last chap, so, since this one is short anyway, I thought I'd thank you for the inspirational reviews by posting early. Don't forget to let me know what you think of this one. You guys keep me going!**_

**Chapter 17**

The solemn, dead-serious look on Sam's face made Azlin's heart break.

"Azlin," he said hoarsely, "do you believe in ghosts?"

She blinked, taken aback. The moment had been so tense, his manner so grave, that the strange question took her off guard. Whatever she'd expected him to say, it wasn't that. "I—what?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he repeated.

"No. Of course not," she answered. She began to feel angry and pulled her hands away from his, crossing her arms. She'd thought he was about to reveal his big secret, but instead he was playing games. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything." Something seemed to shift in him, and the anguish of his expression morphed into something harder. He crossed his arms, mirroring her posture. "Are _you _religious? Do you believe in God?"

"No."

He seemed a little surprised by the quickness and sureness of her answer.

She kept her voice steady, keeping old rage and grief from it, and explained. "If God were real and merciful like everyone says, I don't think he would have let my parents roast extra crispy on that highway."

His expression grew dark. "Don't be so sure," he said, and his intensity scared her. He was still rigid, still frozen in place with his arms crossed, jaw tensing, brows drawn into that serious Sam expression that she normally loved so well. "I'm assuming, then," he said, "that you don't believe in angels or demons, either?"

"Of course not." She huffed in frustration and couldn't keep the acidity from her tone. "I'm sorry. I thought we were talking about your secrets, your past. I can see, though, that you still don't trust me, that we're getting nowhere." She didn't want to be upset with him, but why was he asking her these weird questions? She walked over and dropped back down into her desk chair, grabbing her pen. "I have to get back to work, Sam. I don't know what the fuck you're getting at, but let's save the mythology and religion debate for another day."

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "My brother and I, we're hunters; so is Bobby. He's not our uncle, but he's been like a father to us ever since our dad died. We hunt things that most people haven't believed in since they were ten years old—vampires, ghosts, demons, monsters. It's all real, Azlin, and so are angels and God and the devil, although, believe me, they're not how most people think of them."

She pretended to ignore him, studying one of the spreadsheets on her desk and underlining things in it, having no idea what she was actually reading. She didn't know how to respond to him and was growing angrier by the second that he was persisting with this nonsense. What the fuck was he talking about? Was he crazy or just screwing with her? Nothing he was saying made any sense. He always seemed so logical, so level-headed. Was he suddenly delusional?

As if reading her mind, he said, "I'm not crazy, Azlin. Dean and I, we've been doing this all our lives."

She continued to "work," pissed off and frustrated, almost feeling panicky, and forced herself to remain calm. The sound of his voice and his demeanor seemed rational, but the words coming out of his mouth were completely bizarre.

"My mother was killed by a demon, and my father spent the rest of his life trying to find the thing and kill it. He took Dean and me along for the ride. In the search for what killed our mother, we ran into other supernatural...creatures and learned how to kill them. Sometimes, it takes hours and hours of research to know what we're dealing with. If it's a demon or maybe some kind of spell, we have to know the Latin to exorcise it or reverse it. My dad was an ex-Marine, and he trained us how to fight, how to use weapons, how to kill things."

She stiffened, paused the movement of her pen.

"_Things_, Azlin," he stressed, "not people."

Her eyes began to swim, and she rubbed them with her hand, trying to push the tears back in before they escaped. She was not going to fucking cry, but her chest and throat felt constricted, like a fist was squeezing them shut. She didn't think he was messing with her anymore; he really believed what he was saying. Maybe their father had brainwashed them, possibly abused them. The thought made her sick.

He reached out and gently cupped her chin with his fingers, raising her head. She couldn't look at him, kept her eyes down. His voice was soft, resigned. "You don't believe me."

She swallowed hard and finally looked into his eyes. The hurt she saw there was her undoing, and hot tears spilled from her eyes and down her face. "We can get you help, Sam. I think maybe—did your father—um, did your dad ever hurt you?"

His jaw hardened, and he let go of her face, leaning back. "My father was a good man. He didn't abuse us."

So Sam said, but if he'd grown up that way, would he know what a normal, loving father was really like? She wiped the tears hastily away, and kept her voice gentle. "I just think maybe you should talk to someone, you know, like maybe a professional."

He scowled, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

She held up a placating hand. "Okay. I'm sorry. Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with your dad. Maybe the coma skewed something in your brain. I mean, you can't remember the year and a half before the coma, so maybe whatever happened to you has you confused or something."

"Dean and Bobby will tell you the same story. You think they're crazy, too?"

She thought about Dean, who always seemed so sure of himself, so capable, and Bobby, who was so practical, so down-to-earth. Of course they didn't seem crazy, but neither had Sam until now. Dean and Bobby were enablers, or maybe they were into some sort of role-playing game, and Sam was confused and took it literally. Maybe they were into some kind of weird religious cult. Maybe they'd watched too much Ghost Adventurers on the Travel Channel. Really, she didn't know what to think, and, suddenly, she realized she didn't care.

She didn't care if Sam was completely out of his mind. It wasn't like she was the most normal person in the world, so, as long as he wasn't dangerous, he could be as crazy as he wanted to be. She could go along with it just like Dean and Bobby, if that's what they did. As long as Sam stayed with her, he could be an exorcist or ghost hunter or fucking Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It explained things a little bit, why he was reluctant to tell her what was going on, but it still didn't explain why he went into the coma or why he and Dean didn't use their real last name.

She got up from the chair and wrapped her arms around Sam's neck.

He was still leaning stiffly against the desk, arms braced on it, and didn't make a move to return her hug.

"I think Dean and Bobby—I think we're all nuts, Sam." She leaned in and kissed him, nudging his lips with her tongue, but he wouldn't kiss her back, his mouth still in that thin, grim line.

She sighed, pressing her forehead against his. "Give me a break, Sam. What do you want me to say?"

He didn't answer.

She pulled back, and she couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice. "Yes, Sam. It's all very believable, what you just told me. I hear things like that all the time, so don't worry. It doesn't sound schizo at all."

His face was like stone. "Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you this?"

"As hard as it is for me to believe it?"

He sighed in angry frustration and ran a hand through his dark hair, training his beautiful, tortured eyes on her. "I love you, Azlin. I don't want you to think I'm crazy. I need you to believe me."

His words broke her heart, and she didn't want to hurt him further. She weighed her next words, not wanting to sound patronizing. "I believe...I believe _you_ believe it, Sam."

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, controlled breath, clearly unhappy with her answer.

So much for not sounding patronizing. "I'm sorry," she said.

His face took on a stubborn, belligerent expression, and he began to speak in a hard tone. "I was in hell—not figuratively, but literally—because Lucifer was using my body as a vessel, and I had to trick him back into the cage that I sprung him from when I started the Apocalypse."

"Stop."

He went on doggedly. "Someone rescued me, sort of. They brought my body back topside but for some reason left my soul in hell."

"I said stop."

"For a year and a half, I hunted, and, apparently, I was the best I'd ever been, but it was because I had no soul, no conscience." He swallowed, face growing tormented. "I can't remember any of that time, but I think...I know I did some really bad things. I tried to kill Bobby."

It was like he had punched her, and she inhaled a ragged breath. "Stop," she implored.

"Dean had some leverage over Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and made a deal with him. It's a long story, but Death went to hell and got my soul back. When he restored my soul, it was a trauma to my body, and I fell into a coma."

"Goddamn it, Sam! I said stop! If I didn't think you were off your rocker before, I sure as hell do now!" she yelled. She started crying again, tears of outrage and absolute horror. He really was fucking nuts. The guy she was completely, totally in love with was nutty as a fruitcake. She put a hand over her mouth, feeling like she might throw up.

He put his strong hands on her shoulders, and she could feel him shaking. He looked savagely into her eyes, and she knew he was wounded and furious. "What's the matter, Azlin? I just told you the fucking sky was falling. _You_ said you'd believe me!"

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin's only reaction to Sam was to close her eyes, but not before he'd seen into her soul.

Sam had only known this same feeling of devastating hurt and rage once before in his life—the time Dean had called him a monster. He was shaking, fighting for control, fighting not to squeeze Azlin's shoulders too hard and bruise her. He let go of her abruptly and strode over to the window, bracing himself on the sill, gulping in a deep breath, exhaling shakily. The view of the ranch was normally breathtaking from this window, but he wasn't seeing it. He barely registered the late afternoon sun streaming through the window and warming his skin.

He could hear Azlin crying behind him, and he despised himself for upsetting her, for scaring her. He should have lied to her, given her a plausible story, pretended that the horror story of his life wasn't true. Is this how it would have been if he'd told Jessica? Maybe so, and maybe she would have run as far away from him as she could get and would still be alive today. The thought that Azlin might run from him made him ill.

He hated the way Azlin had looked at him, her expression a mixture of fear, pity, and profound disbelief. He had wanted so much to be wrong about her reaction. He'd wanted her to have faith in him, to believe in him, to love him enough to know he wasn't crazy. There was really no way to convince her he was telling the truth, short of forcing her to go on a hunt with him, and, of course, he would never do that, would never knowingly put her in harm's way.

Maybe a year or two ago Castiel could have helped him convince her, shown her some angel hoodoo, but Dean and Bobby were sure that Cas had gone dark side, that Cas was in cahoots with Crowley, the self-anointed King of Hell. Sam didn't want Castiel anywhere near Azlin.

He could still hear her crying, but he couldn't bring himself to go comfort her, couldn't bear to see that look in her eyes again. She thought he was insane, thought he needed professional help. The irony of it all was that he was perfectly sane in spite of everything he'd been through. Of course, if the wall came down in his head, he'd be screwed, but he refused to dwell on that.

For the first time in a long time, he'd been happy. It was such a simple word, yet it had never been simple for him to attain it. For some reason, happiness had been forbidden him. In the last few months, though, he'd finally found a reason for everything he'd done and a reason to keep going, a tangible person that he loved other than Dean and Bobby, a precious face among the billions he'd saved. He'd gone to hell for _her_. She was alive because of him, and he'd do it again for her if he had to. But now he would probably lose her. She thought he was demented, and maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, because he would probably go mad without her.

Her crying had stopped, but he could still hear a sporadic sniffle here and there, and then he felt her wrap her slender arms around his waist and put her head against his back.

He couldn't resist her, couldn't resist the pull of gravity she had on his heart, so he turned and pulled her fully into his arms; but he kept his eyes closed, tucking her head into his chest, burying his nose in the rosemary-and-mint smell of her hair, not willing to look at her face.

They stood that way for a long time, the source of each other's pain but also its solace. Sam didn't know what to do or say. If she were Dean, they probably would have beaten the crap out of each other and been done with it, at least on the surface, but Sam didn't know how to resolve this rift that was now between Azlin and himself.

He finally felt her head shift back and he raised his head, eyes still closed, knowing she was looking up at him and still not able to meet her gaze, not wanting to see the doubt in her eyes.

"Look at me, Sam."

He couldn't.

She put a gentle hand on his cheek. "Please?"

He relented, and it was a mistake.

Everything he'd been afraid he would see was still there—the disbelief, the pity, the despair. She started to speak. "I—"

"Don't say anything." His voice was dangerously soft, hiding the fury raging inside him. The unfairness of it all and her lack of faith in him was crushing, and he was clenching his jaw so tightly he thought it might break. Finally, he forced himself to uncoil enough to say, "Go back to work. I need some time alone." And he stalked out of the study and left her staring after him.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin sat at the piano, playing a sad sonata by Mozart that fit her mood. After Sam had left the study, she hadn't been able to concentrate on the WebbCo spreadsheets, of course, so she'd come into the music room instead. In light of what had just happened with Sam, the acquisition vote seemed insignificant, anyway.

She needed time to think. What he'd told her seemed so completely implausible, so utterly insane. She'd reacted badly and knew she had hurt him deeply. She'd told him she would believe anything he said, and then when he finally told her everything, she'd pretty much called him a wacko to his face.

She'd never been the type of person to believe in anything that she didn't have proof of. By the time she was four, she'd figured out that Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny weren't real. She'd never been scared by ghost stories or horror movies because she knew there was no way any of it was possible.

She'd had a tentative faith in God until her parents' deaths, and then she stopped believing. Her disbelief had been confirmed and justified when she'd witnessed some of the suffering of the patients at the rehab center. If there were a benevolent God, why did innocent, good people have to suffer at all? Why did little kids get cancer? Why was there war and famine?

There was no afterlife, as far as Azlin was concerned, and happiness on Earth was just luck of the draw. It didn't matter how virtuous you were or how much faith you had or how much money you earned. Some people made it through life without too much pain or woe, and some didn't. It was all arbitrary.

The things Sam had told her had been overwhelming, shocking. She had been convinced that he was delusional, that he needed help, but now that she'd had a little time to think things over, she just couldn't reconcile the fact that her logical, intelligent, practical, loving Sam was nuts. How could she trust him so completely with the most important aspects of her business and her life but not trust him in this?

What if she put away her skepticism for a moment and gave him the benefit of the doubt? Okay. So he was a ghost hunter. It sort of fit with her bounty hunter theory. Sam and his brother were saving the world from scary, horrible creatures. Of course, most everyone would react as she had, so they didn't tell anyone. They were vigilantes, which meant they were breaking the law, and probably no law enforcement official would ever believe them anyway. She had so many questions about the logistics of it all, but, if she were suspending disbelief, it was plausible.

Of course, then there was all the stuff he'd told her about being in hell and something about starting the Apocalypse. Most of it didn't make sense, and it was the hardest part for her to wrap her mind around. Death, one of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse, had rescued Sam's soul from hell, and the restoring of it had caused the coma? Even for some crazy Bible thumper or conspiracy theorist it would probably be hard to believe, and he was mad at _her_ for not believing him?

But he was Sam_, _and she loved him unconditionally with every ounce of her being. How could she doubt him? There'd always been something special about him, a quiet inner strength and wisdom that made him seem older than his years. Dean had a similar quality about him, as if they'd seen things, like veterans coming home from war. What if it was all true?

The implications of it all were incredible, the sheer heroism unbelievable—except that she could believe Sam was a hero, and maybe even Dean, too. That was the one thing out of everything she'd learned that didn't seem farfetched at all.

Was she letting her love for Sam cloud her thinking? Was she trying to force truth into something that was impossible just so the man she loved wouldn't be a candidate for the loony bin? Maybe. But wasn't that part of what love was about? Wasn't she allowed to have faith in him, to believe in him? If it was a test of her love for him, then, so far, she had failed, and she owed him an apology. She wasn't sure yet what she believed, but she was suddenly certain that Sam wasn't a lunatic.

She jumped up from the piano bench and started running through the oversized rooms of the downstairs. "Sam!" she yelled.

There was no answer.

"Sam!"

The house was eerily quiet.

Her heart was racing now, her adrenaline pumping. "Sam!"

Silence.

She stopped, out of breath, when she got to the kitchen. She bent over, panting. _Okay. Think_, she told herself. Where would he be? She hadn't gone upstairs, but surely he would have heard her yelling for him and said something. Had he gone somewhere? She was passing through the mudroom on her way to see if the BMW was still in the garage and stopped short as she noticed the keys were gone from their usual spot on a peg by the door. She opened the door to the garage, hoping the fact that the keys were missing meant something else, and had to fight panic when she saw the car was really gone.

"Okay. Don't freak," she muttered to herself. Maybe he just went for a drive. There were a million reasons why he might have taken the car. It didn't mean he had left her. Sam wouldn't do that. She tried not to think about how much she had hurt him and the look of stark anger and betrayal that had been on his face before he'd walked out of the study.

She turned and hastily made her way to the stairs and rushed up to the second floor to her room. She looked in the closet first, and noticed that only a few of his shirts were still hanging there, and all of his jeans were gone. His duffel that was usually stored on the top shelf of the closet was gone.

She stood there just staring for a moment in denial, and then she numbly opened one of his dresser drawers and found it empty. When she looked in the bathroom, she saw that his toothbrush, comb, and shaving cream were gone.

Her legs gave, and her back slid down the doorjamb of the threshold to the bathroom until she was sitting on the floor. A rush of hot tears spilled down her face, and her throat swelled until she almost couldn't breathe. She drew in a ragged breath and cried, "No, no, no, no!"

She felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her body. Everything she'd been so afraid of had just happened. She'd hurt him, and he'd left. She was shocked and devastated and felt herself begin to break. Everyone she'd ever loved had left her for one reason or another, and the agony this time was fresh and raw and shattering.

She was a fucking idiot. She'd _known_ happiness wasn't meant for her, and she'd _known_ that giving herself to Sam was a huge risk—was stupid—but she'd done it anyway. Eight years of protecting herself, of never letting anyone close enough to hurt her, and she'd thrown it all away for a few months with Sam.

And, now, there was nothing left.

She had no idea how much time passed before she stopped crying and felt the hollowness creeping in. She suddenly felt dead inside, and she laughed hysterically, thinking maybe Sam would come back and hunt her like one of his ghosts.

**SWDWSWDW**

Justin shut the door to the master bedroom of Azlin's lakefront cabin and heard her phone vibrating on the counter in the distant kitchen. She was sleeping now, and he frowned with worry. She had called him four days ago, sounding almost like a zombie, and two hours later, after he'd driven to her house, he'd found her almost catatonic, lying on the floor in her bedroom. Sam had left her and taken her car, and she was utterly destroyed.

Justin had wanted to report her car stolen, but Azlin told him no, her eyes weirdly vacant. It was then that Justin realized she wasn't making sound decisions, that her feelings for Sam were clouding her judgment. Luckily, when Sam called an hour later, Justin had already slipped a Rohypnol into her club soda, and she'd been asleep.

He'd quickly erased Sam's message and unplugged the house phone when Sam had tried to call it after not getting an answer on her cell. Justin had kept an eye on her cell phone ever since, fielding calls from Sam when they came in and deleting all traces of them. He'd listened to the first few messages and knew Sam had called to apologize, to explain why he'd left, but Justin didn't care what excuses Sam had. Azlin was a mess, and it was Sam's fault. That was all Justin needed to know.

The next morning, when Justin had found her crying hysterically when she'd accidentally found an old, nearly empty can of Sam's shaving cream under the sink in her bathroom, he had given her another dose of the Rohypnol and hastily packed up some of her clothes and toiletries and driven her to the cabin. It was better to get her away from the ranch anyway, in case Sam called the main house again. After all, Justin couldn't leave the phone unplugged when Traci and Zelda were there. When they showed up for work just as Justin had everything packed and ready to go, he told them that Azlin, who was already sitting dazed and groggy in his car, needed some time away, but he hadn't said where they were going.

The cabin was a good choice because she hadn't taken Sam there yet, and there wouldn't be any memories of him there. Justin hadn't taken her to his own loft in Oklahoma City because Sam had stayed there during the Pharm Fest weekend, and Justin wanted a place where there would be no trace of the asshole.

Azlin hadn't been in any shape to tell Justin what happened, and he didn't want to know. It didn't matter. Justin was there to pick up the pieces, just as he had been when Ramsey left her, and he felt no guilt when he made his way into the kitchen of the cabin, picked up Azlin's phone, and erased yet another voice mail from Sam. It was better that their relationship end now.

He'd been wrong about Sam. Sam had left her without so much as a Dear John letter, and the reason why didn't matter. Sam had thrown away his chance with her, and once Justin brought her out of the funk she was in now, he wouldn't risk that Sam might do this to her again.

It was clear to Justin now that he was the only guy in the world guaranteed to never hurt her, and he couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to actually encourage her to give Sam a chance. Justin had her best interests at heart, and he would always protect her. After all, he loved her, and maybe without interference from Sam, one day she would finally return his love. _**TBC**_


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: This was a mammoth (the longest so far), difficult chapter to write, and I rewrote it several times before deciding this version would do. I hope you can follow the time skips, and just so you know, a lot of the events in this chap follow the canon of the season finale for Season 6 and there are spoilers. If you haven't seen it, just ask me if there's something you don't understand. I changed a few minor details and one very big detail and also borrowed a few snippets of dialogue from the very end of the episode. I apologize in advance for the end of this chapter. You guys are gonna want to kill me. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 18**

Sam awoke gasping for breath, terrified, his heart hammering frantically in his chest. Images of his flesh burning away from his bones as Lucifer and Michael looked on, laughing, tormented him. Adam was there in the cage, too, and Lucifer and Michael made Sam and Adam take turns torturing one another as the two fallen angels looked on for sport. Oh, God. Adam. His half-brother was still there, still at the mercy of the twisted, sadistic whims of the devil and the archangel. The thought was sickening, and Sam fought the urge to vomit.

He gulped in lungfuls of air, squeezing his temples with the heels of his hands, clenching his eyes shut, trying desperately to make the images stop.

_Come, on, Sam. Snap out of it! _It was the cold, callous voice of Robo-Sam he was hearing in his head. _You're not in hell, so stop being such a pathetic infant and get your ass in gear._

"Okay," Sam whispered raggedly. "Okay." He was still panting, but he could feel his heart rate begin to slow a fraction as the scene began to fade from his mind. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was lying on a cot, and above him, the large, graceful blades of an exhaust fan whooshed slowly. Sigils in white spray paint covered iron walls to ward off demons, ghosts, and angels, and he could smell whiskey and the faint lingering smell of Old Spice. It was Bobby's panic room, and he was relieved to know he'd been right. His body had been at rest there while he'd been in the dream world—the dream world where he'd been forced to meld his fractured psyche into one person.

The memories of Robo-Sam were horrifying, the horrendous acts he'd committed all there in Sam's head now, every memory that had been missing when he'd woken from the coma. The guilt was overwhelming, but it was still easier to fight than the memories of hell. Hell consumed him, made him unable to think, made him want to curl into a ball and die.

_Come on, Sam. Get your head out of your ass. Where's Dean? Where's Bobby? You have to forget hell right now. Concentrate on the hunt. My God, if I were in charge of this meat boat, we wouldn't have this friggin' problem,_ Robo-Sam scoffed.

The hunt? Sam sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot, holding his pounding head in his hands. He tried to remember the last thing that had happened to him, but he couldn't. He realized that he was extremely thirsty, like lost-in-the-Sahara thirsty. He looked around again and saw a large pitcherful of water and a glass sitting on Bobby's desk. It was among two other low-ball tumblers and two whiskey bottles—one empty and one half full.

He rose on shaky legs and poured himself a glass of water, his hand trembling so badly he could hardly keep the water from spilling. He drained the first glass and decided a glass was too much trouble. Thunking the glass down on the desktop, he tilted the side of the pitcher to his mouth and greedily drank the rest of its contents. Judging by his thirst, he'd probably been out for quite a while, probably a few days. He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost midnight.

Feeling weak, he sat in the old chair by Bobby's desk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. _Think! Think!_ _Think!_ He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself and clear his mind. What had happened to him?

Suddenly, piercing, inhuman screeches deafened him, and he clapped his hands over his ears. The smell of sulfur permeated his nostrils. Excruciating pain lanced through his body, like his skin was being skewered and slowly peeled off, layer by layer.

_Stop it! Be strong! Dean and Bobby need you!_

Panting again, he snapped his head up, trying to push the horrible vision from his mind, and things started to come back to him. Ben and Lisa. He and Dean had rescued them from Crowley, and then they'd joined Bobby after Bobby had figured out that Elle was the answer to the riddle of how to open purgatory—or, more specifically, her blood was. They'd found her bleeding in a back alley next to a smelly dumpster, and after she took her last breath, Castiel appeared behind them, offering an apology and blaming her death on Crowley.

Sam was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that Cas was in league with Crowley. Castiel and Crowley were working together to release souls from purgatory that would increase their power. Cas had been a good friend, almost as close as a brother to Dean, and it was still so hard to believe.

The very last thing Sam remembered, they were in the alley, and Castiel had said to Dean, "Well, rest assured, when this is all over, I will save Sam—but only if you stand down._"_

"Save Sam from what_?" _said Dean, his voice hard and sharp.

Then Castiel had suddenly appeared next to Sam and put his fingers on Sam's temple.

The next thing Sam knew, he was in the dream world, not knowing who he was until the fragments of his mind had started to come together. Castiel, the fucking bastard, had brought the wall in Sam's head down, and now Sam was fighting for his sanity.

His sanity. Oh, God. Azlin. He almost laughed at the irony. He couldn't be angry at her anymore for thinking him crazy, since he was now practically stark-raving mad. He hadn't really been worried about the wall, hadn't really thought it would come down. All those months in the rehab hospital, he'd been more concerned about his body recovering rather than what might happen to his mind. Now, thanks to Castiel, he was gonna be living in a rubber room and wearing the latest fashion in straight jackets.

His sight suddenly went blood-red, and he clenched his eyes shut, trying to fight the oncoming visions of hell, trying to remember Azlin's face. Cool, clear blue eyes, like a refreshing pool in the heat of summer. Black, silky lashes, kissable lips, pale skin, engaging dimples. The smell of rosemary and mint. He suddenly missed her so fiercely his eyes welled with moisture.

_Oh, God. You're such a titty baby, same old misty-eyed milksop as always. We don't have time for this, _Robo-Sam berated_. Light a fire under your ass!_

It was then that Sam noticed the Taurus handgun and a piece of paper lying on the bare mattress of the cot. He got up and reached over, picking up the paper. There was an almost illegible handwriting on the note that he didn't recognize. The words blurred for a second, and Sam had to blink his eyes several times, forcing himself to focus. It was an address, and he figured Dean and Bobby wanted him to meet them there. Almost subconsciously, he grabbed the gun, tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans, and threw on his brown denim jacket that had been carelessly flung over the back of a chair.

He made his way out of Bobby's house and shook his head in the crisp night air of the South Dakota evening, trying to think what to do next.

_A car, Jell-O brain. You have to have a frigging car to get where you need to go._

He looked around the salvage yard and saw Azlin's convertible BMW parked near the house. He felt a familiar stab of remorse that he'd taken it without her permission, that he'd left without saying goodbye. He had been hurt and furious with her at the time, and the look he'd seen in her eyes had made him feel almost sick with self-loathing; so, when he'd gotten Dean's call, he'd just left.

Dean had called him almost the minute he'd walked out of the study after his fight with Azlin, distraught with worry because Ben and Lisa had been abducted by Crowley, and there was no question that Sam had to get there as quickly as possible to help rescue them. He'd known that Azlin wouldn't let him go easily, wouldn't believe or understand the dire urgency of the situation, so he'd taken the easy way out and just split. It was possibly one of the stupidest things he'd ever done, right up there with drinking demon blood and screwing Ruby.

Three hours into the long drive to South Dakota, he'd had a chance to cool off and think, and he'd realized that maybe he hadn't been fair to Azlin. Why had he been so hurt, felt so betrayed, when he'd known all along that she wouldn't believe him? He'd then grown worried at how his leaving must have affected her, knowing her past history, and had immediately tried to call her, but there'd been no answer. On the way to Bobby's, he'd probably tried to call her cell and the ranch phone at least a million times and had gotten no answer.

When he reached Bobby's the next morning, exhausted from driving all night, he'd finally gotten Traci to answer the ranch phone when she came to work. She told him that Azlin had just left with Justin and would be gone for several days, but she didn't know where they'd gone. It gave him a cold, sinking feeling in his gut, and he'd been pissed that Justin hadn't wasted any time moving in on Azlin. He remembered again the way the bastard looked at her when she was onstage. He'd tried Chad then—had woken him up, of course—and gotten Justin's number from him, but Justin didn't answer his phone, either. Not a shocker there.

Sam had wanted to hop on a plane and go back to Oklahoma right then, hating the idea that Justin had taken Azlin off somewhere unknown, and he was sure Justin had something to do with the fact that he couldn't get a hold of her. Even more disturbing was that she hadn't called him, either. Was she that mad at him that he'd left without saying goodbye? Had she not gotten _any_ of his messages? The whole situation gave him a very bad feeling, but one look at Dean's face, and Sam knew he would have to help get Ben and Lisa back before he could go anywhere.

He searched in the pockets of his jacket and felt the weight of Azlin's keys in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He shouldn't take her car, should probably take one of the clunkers from Bobby's salvage yard since he had no idea what he was about to get into, but he headed for the BMW anyway. It reminded him of Azlin, and he had a pathetic need to feel close to her in some way.

As he slid into the tan leather of the driver's seat, he pulled out his cell phone, turned it on, and then quickly scrolled through his messages. There was something old from Dean but nothing from Azlin. He saw by the date displayed on the cell phone's screen that it had been three days since he'd last called her, since right before Castiel had brought the wall down in his head. Seven days since he'd left the ranch, and she'd never called him. He hoped that she was okay, and he had the urgent need to call her right then.

_Start the damn car, you weak moron, and stop mooning over Azlin! Dean and Bobby. Remember them?_

Reluctantly putting his phone away, he started the car, knowing that he should get to where Dean and Bobby were and try to help them, for whatever it was worth. He wasn't sure how much help he would actually be in the current state he was in.

Somehow, Sam managed to get to the address scrawled on the note, although he had almost no recollection of actually driving there and probably shouldn't have been driving at all. Memories from his year as Robo-Sam coupled with the memories from hell were scrambling his brain. If he thought of Azlin or Dean and Bobby he could snap out of it for a moment, but the agonizing thoughts kept crashing back into his head, causing him to almost black out.

He saw the silvery rims of the Impala's wheels glinting in the light of the full moon and parked Azlin's car on the road near it. It took his jumbled brain a moment to register the fact that the wheels were in the air, that they shouldn't be, that the Impala was upside down.

He blinked and pulled the gun out of his waistband but carried it loosely, unable to fit it properly in his grasp. He staggered over to the Impala like a drunk on a three-day bender and then bent down and looked in the window. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried that Dean and Bobby weren't in it. They were nowhere in sight.

He straightened, and one of the worst, mind-blowing visions of hell he'd had yet brought him to his knees, desperately gasping for breath. It was fire. Fire was everywhere, flames blackening his skin, singeing his throat, melting his brain.

_Here we go again,_ said Robo-Sam sarcastically_. Think of Azlin, Dean, or Bobby—whichever of them gets your rocks off—and get moving, you pathetic pile of crap! You're wasting time._

Sam swallowed hard, blinking, trying yet again to regain his breath. Mercifully coming back to the present, he could see what looked like an abandoned factory or something straight ahead and knew that it must be the place he was supposed to meet Dean and Bobby. He concentrated on the light coming from it and forced himself to get up and head toward it.

When he reached the building, he peeked in one of the windows, trying to keep his clumsy limbs under control and not give himself away by accidentally banging on the glass or something. He could see a large, cavernous room that looked sort of clinical, in a mad-scientist kind of way. There was a metal, gurney-type table bent and collapsed on the floor, like something or someone had fallen on it. Cas was talking to Crowley and Raphael, and Dean and Bobby were watching. Dean was holding his ribs like he was hurt, and Bobby didn't look so hot, either.

Sam needed to find a way in. He stumbled around the perimeter of the building and found a door on the ground floor that looked like it should lead into the room where Dean and Bobby were. He carefully tried the doorknob, trying not to make any noise. It was locked.

He closed his eyes, panting. Fear for Bobby and Dean caused his heart to race, and he wondered what to do. If only he could clear his brain, get rid of the muzziness.

_Pick the lock, idiot._

He slid his hand in the back pocket of his jeans and felt the familiar leather case of his lock-picking tools. Thank God. He hadn't used them the whole time he'd been at the rehab hospital or the time he'd spent with Azlin, hadn't carried them around, but the minute he'd gotten to Dean and Bobby and was back in the hunt, old habits had kicked in. He'd put the set of tools back in his pocket, just as he'd been doing for practically his entire life. _A good soldier is always prepared._ The words of his father echoed in his head.

Sam was glad of the bright moonlight as he pulled the case out of his pocket. Despite the shaking of his hands, he was able to pick the lock and had the door open in seconds. Just as he was slowly swinging it open, praying there would be no rusty hinges to squeak and give him away, there was a blinding light that radiated from Castiel, and Sam shielded his eyes and felt his way along the wall, hoping to find a place where he wouldn't be seen.

When the flash of light was gone, Sam opened his eyes to see everyone in the room staring at Castiel in awe. Raphael and Crowley, once recovered, both had looks on their faces that said the shit had hit the fan. In the next instant, Crowley said something about exiting a stage, and he disappeared.

Sam quietly made his way along the wall until he reached the shadows of a set of stairs that were near where everyone was standing. Everyone's attention seemed riveted on what Castiel was saying to Raphael.

Sam could again feel hell trying to creep into his consciousness, and he fought desperately to keep the thoughts at bay. He couldn't afford to freak out now. Azlin, Azlin, Azlin... He kept repeating it to himself like a mantra, her name giving him strength.

Castiel's back was to Sam, and Sam saw him raise his hand. With a simple snap of his fingers, Raphael exploded into a million droplets of blood that spattered on the wall.

Dean and Bobby looked horrified.

Sam was astonished by the power Castiel now possessed. Cas had obviously had success with his plan to retrieve the energy of the souls in purgatory. Dean and Cas were talking, and with flashes of hell trying to break through Sam's rational thoughts, he could only focus sporadically on what they were saying.

He heard Dean say something like, "Let's just defuse you."

Castiel seemed to argue with Dean.

"We were family once. I'd die for you," said Dean.

Sam was distracted by the screeching in his ears. Have to fight it off, he thought. Concentrate on helping Dean.

"You don't need this kind of juice anymore, Cas," Dean was saying.

"You're just saying that because I won, because you're afraid." Cas's manner was like a cult follower who'd been brainwashed.

Sam realized that he needed to act, that he needed to be ready if Dean couldn't talk Cas down. The gun Sam had brought would be useless, so he quietly tucked it back into his waistband. He looked at his surroundings and almost thought he was hallucinating again when he saw a bloody angel blade right at his feet. He hadn't noticed it earlier, had been too distracted. He picked it up and stealthily made his way toward Cas, his hunting adrenaline kicking in and overriding the tumultuous ramblings of his mind.

"You're not my family, Dean," said Cas with that strange, peaceful intensity. "I have no family."

Dean's eyes flicked to Sam, who was now directly behind Cas, and then looked back to Castiel.

The movement had been nearly imperceptible, but Sam knew by the fact that Dean had seen him and didn't try to stop him that Dean wanted him to seize this chance. Without further thinking, Sam plunged the angel blade deeply into Castiel's back.

Nothing happened. There was not even a grunt of pain from Castiel, and he reached back and calmly pulled out the blade as if it were nothing but a splinter. His back still to Sam, he said conversationally, "I'm glad you made it, Sam, but the angel blade won't work because I'm not an angel anymore."

Sam's eyes went to Dean and Bobby, and they all shared a look of disbelief. If the angel blade wouldn't kill Cas, nothing would. Castiel was like a nuclear bomb that no one could defuse.

"I'm your new God," Castiel continued, "a better one." His tone grew cold, and he turned to face Sam.

There was a maniacal gleam in Castiel's eyes, and Sam's pulse hammered in stark fear. Castiel raised a hand and placed it on Sam's heart. "How dare you lay a hand against your new lord. You must be punished."

There was an instant where Sam felt his pounding pulse stop abruptly, and then there was a crushing pain in his chest, as if Castiel's fist were inside him, squeezing his heart like a vise. He couldn't breathe, couldn't get any air past his throat nor any sound. His eyes widened, and he looked to Dean in desperation for help, but it was futile. Sam's world went black before he even hit the floor.

**SWDWSWDW**

Dean watched in stunned terror as Sam collapsed to the concrete floor, his head hitting hard as he landed.

Castiel looked on, his face almost impassive except for the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

Dean flew to Sam's side, got on his knees, and put two fingers to Sam's neck, checking his carotid artery for a pulse. There was none, and Sam's lips were already turning blue. Dean felt a cold, numb feeling suffuse his body, trying to deny what his eyes were telling him had just happened.

Bobby was a second behind and got on his knees on the other side of Sam. He searched Dean's face, silently questioning.

Dean shook his head slowly from side to side, and the numbness began to subside. He could feel his throat closing and tears welling in his eyes. He picked up Sam by the shoulders, supporting Sam's lolling head with one hand, and hugged him tightly. "Sammy," he said in a ragged whisper.

Castiel looked down at them, showing no compassion. "So you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your lord, or I shall destroy you, just as I have Sam."

Dean stared at the monster that used to be Castiel, still not fully comprehending that this angel that had been like a brother had just stopped Sam's heart from beating.

Castiel looked upward to the ceiling. "I must go, now. Those who supported Raphael must be punished." He looked back to Dean, holding his gaze. "I won't be as merciful to them as I was to Sam. They will suffer before I smite them." And then he was gone, disappearing in an instant, as he always did, into thin air.

The heavy weight of Sam's body in his arms brought Dean back to his senses, and he sprung into action, lying Sam carefully back to the floor. "Bobby," he said with urgency, "start CPR."

Bobby didn't hesitate, placing both hands in a fist above Sam's heart.

Dean blew breath into Sam's lungs and then Bobby did chest compressions, Bobby doing the counting, Dean checking for a pulse after each cycle. They got into a rhythm, and time seemed to stand still, although Dean knew they had already done more cycles than most paramedics would have.

"Dean, it's been too long," said Bobby quietly, sorrow in his eyes.

But Dean wasn't about to quit. "Don't stop, Bobby! I'm not gonna let him die." He blew another breath into Sam's mouth and looked at Bobby with challenge. If Bobby quit the compressions, he'd do them himself.

Bobby didn't say anything more. With reluctance, he did the next set of compressions.

Dean checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

He was suddenly filled with rage. "Dammit, Sammy! Don't you do this to me!" He blew another determined breath into Sam's mouth.

Bobby did another cycle of chest compressions.

Dean checked for a pulse.

Nothing. Sam's color was pale, and his lips and fingernails looked a sickly color of blue, like a deep bruise.

"Again!" Dean commanded harshly, and blew another breath into Sam. Bobby did as he was told, counting off another round of chest compressions.

This time, when Dean checked for a pulse, it was there. It was thready and sporadic, but it was there. He looked at Bobby and nodded, no time for triumph. Sam was barely breathing, and if they didn't get him to a hospital soon, he would still die.

Bobby raced out the side door where Sam had come in, and Dean knew Bobby had gone to find the car Sam had driven there. They should have searched Sam for the keys, but there was no time. Bobby would have to hot-wire it.

Dean pulled Sam's lax body into another hug. "Hang in there, Sammy. We're gonna get you some help."

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin woke in the middle of the night, her heart racing, at first confused as to where she was. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that she was in her parents' room at the lake cabin. Justin had mistakenly put her in there. If she'd been in her right mind, she never would have agreed to sleep in her parents' bed. It had been surprisingly comforting, though, the memory of their presence. She hadn't had any nightmares, but she'd practically slept like the dead since Sam had left, so maybe that was why.

She was obviously in some kind of weird depression. She'd slept almost constantly for days, and there were whole stretches of time that she remembered nothing, like she had blacked out. She had no clue what day it was. It was almost like she had been drugged, but she pushed the thought out of her mind. How could she have taken drugs? And she couldn't remember Justin giving her anything.

She'd been dreaming about Sam, and that's why she'd woken up. Her chest tightened at the thought of him, and she wished she could remember what the dream was about. She couldn't remember any of the details, though, just felt the residual effect from it, a sense of closeness to him. She missed him so much.

She felt weak, groggy, and kind of nauseous, like she had a bad hangover, and took a deep breath to try to clear her head. She wondered how long Sam had been gone and if he'd tried to call. Maybe she'd overreacted. Maybe he hadn't left for good after all. Sam didn't seem like the kind of person who would end a relationship without some kind of closure. There had to be some kind of an explanation. He'd been upset with her, but she knew that he loved her. He wouldn't want to end things that abruptly, would he?

She'd been so out of it, she couldn't even remember the last time she'd checked her phone for messages. Maybe he'd called, and she'd missed it. She pulled the soft, cottony covers back from the warm bed and threw her legs over the side. She felt a head rush and waited a second for it to pass before getting up. When was the last time she'd eaten? She noticed that she was wearing a large, unfamiliar t-shirt and boxer shorts that were too big, and didn't remember ever putting them on. Were they Justin's?

She got out of bed and shivered a bit in the chill of the night as her bare feet touched the plush area rug on the floor. The cabin was quiet and dark, and she had to feel her way along the oak-paneled hallway into the great room and kitchen area. Her phone was on the kitchen counter where she'd left it, plugged into its charger. She didn't remember plugging it in and figured Justin must have done it for her. She thanked him silently for taking such good care of her. He always thought of everything, and she was lucky to have him as a friend.

She picked up the phone and looked at her messages. She was shocked when she saw the date on the phone and realized it had been almost a week since her fight with Sam. There were no voice mails from him, no texts, nothing. In fact, there were no new messages from anyone, which was strange. Her blood ran cold, and her chest and throat ached for breath that wouldn't come. Why hadn't Sam called? Had she been right, and it really was over?

Of course, she hadn't called him, either, which was ridiculous when she thought about it. She should have called him as soon as she'd realized he was gone and told him she didn't think he was nuts, but she hadn't been thinking straight at the time, had been totally freaked out, and then Justin had come and she'd fallen into this weird funk.

Without further thinking, she found Sam's number and hit dial, not caring that it was almost three-thirty in the morning. It went straight to his voice mail, and her heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice, even though it was just a recording. She redialed, and it again went straight to voice mail. Maybe he had it turned off while he slept.

She unplugged her phone from the charger and took it with her, making her way back to the bedroom, padding across the rustic pine floor and soft Oushak area rug back to her parents' bed. She snuggled back in on her side under the down comforter, her phone in her hand, curled under her chin. The memory of Sam's voice on his voice-mail greeting warmed her as she drifted back to sleep. She would call him in the morning.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin was woken an hour later from a deep sleep by the trilling ring of her cell phone. She'd gone to sleep with it in her hand, but it had somehow ended up lying by itself on the empty side of the massive, king-size bed.

She grabbed it quickly, her heart instantly starting to pound. She was disappointed and a little leery when she saw that it was Dean's number and not Sam's, especially since it was only four-thirty in the morning. "Hello?"

"_Azlin?"_

"Yes?" she answered cautiously.

"_It's Dean."_

"Yeah. I know."

He was silent.

She began to sense immediately that something was wrong and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"_It's Sam. He's in the hospital in Sioux Falls, South Dakota."_

She swallowed the mammoth lump forming in her throat. "What? Is he okay? What happened to him?"

Another pause. _"How soon can you get here?"_ His voice was quiet but thick, like he was trying to control his emotions.

She tried to keep her wits about her and not panic. "Is he okay? Tell me what's wrong with him, Dean."

"_How soon can you get here?"_ he repeated.

"Four or five hours, maybe sooner? I'm not near a major airport, but I can charter a private plane if I can find one at this hour."

"_Do it."_

She had to know what was going on. "Tell me what's wrong, Dean!" she said with force.

"_He's...Sam's in a coma."_

**SWDWSWDW**

Dean and Bobby were in the ICU waiting area, sitting in green plastic chairs. Although there were others waiting to hear news of loved ones, there was an eerie quiet in the room, despite the fact that Fox News could be heard on the flat-screen TV. No one was talking. Bobby and Dean were both silent and tense, hoping that Azlin would make it before it was too late. The doctors had said Sam didn't have much time, and Dean knew that Sam would want Azlin to be there.

Bobby had driven Azlin's BMW to the hospital the night before, Sam lying reclined in the passenger seat of the small car.

Dean had gotten in the back but had hovered over Sam, watching Sam's breathing like a hawk. Every time Sam had stopped breathing along the way, Dean had managed to get it going again using CPR until Bobby had finally pulled up to the emergency doors of the hospital.

It was almost a repeat of what had happened a year and a half ago, except the situation last night had been much more dire. It was the same hospital they'd brought Sam to when he'd slipped into the coma Death had induced, and his doctors were nearly all the same, except a cardiologist had been added to the list. The nurses and doctors had all been shocked to see Sam brought in again—this time, because his heart had stopped.

It wasn't any easier to explain. Sam's heart suddenly stopping made no more sense than him falling into a coma for no apparent reason. It wasn't a heart attack. Sam's arteries weren't clogged, and there was no sign of heart disease. The doctors had questioned Dean and Bobby closely, especially given Sam's strange medical history, but in the end they'd chalked it up to one of those rare things in modern medicine that was still inexplicable. Clearly, there was a missing piece to the puzzle, some condition Sam had that they had failed to diagnose, despite their best efforts when he'd been there before.

"Dean?" said a feminine voice.

He looked up to see Azlin standing next to him, small purse slung over her shoulder, clad in jeans, black t-shirt, and an olive-green, army-style jacket. She looked thin, almost ill, and had dark circles under her eyes.

Dean stood and awkwardly faced her, not knowing how to greet her, but relieved that she was there.

Bobby stood, equally as awkward as Dean.

There was a pregnant silence, and Azlin's eyes darted from Dean to Bobby and back to Dean, silently questioning but, at the same time, it was as though she didn't want to know the answer.

Dean didn't say anything, and neither did Bobby. Dean didn't want to tell her the heartbreaking news because he didn't want to believe it himself, and he supposed Bobby felt the same.

Her expression was guarded. "Which room is he in? Can I see him?"

Dean shook his head and swallowed, trying to find his voice. "The doctors are in with him right now. We can go in when they're done."

"Are they restricting visitors?" she asked quietly.

He realized she knew what questions to ask without coming right out with it. Throat narrowing, eyes welling, he rasped, "No. There's no need."

She swallowed hard, going so pale she looked like she might pass out.

He tensed in anticipation, ready to catch her if she started to fall, but she seemed to get control of herself, and some of her color returned. "Maybe if he hears... I'll go buy a guitar," she said with determination, and turned to leave.

He caught her arm to stop her. "It won't help, Azlin. Sam's..." He paused, swallowing, unable this time to keep a tear from leaking out. "It's not like before. He's too far gone."

Anger and denial were on her face. "What do you mean he's too far gone?"

Grief flushed through Dean's body like a tidal wave, and he shook his head, unable to say the words. He looked away from her as tears fell freely from his eyes.

Voice gruff, Bobby said, "Sam's heart stopped, Azlin. He went into cadiac arrest."

"What?" she said, disbelief in her voice.

"Dean and I did CPR, but it was too late. Sam went too long without oxygen."

"That's impossible. He was doing so well. He was getting stronger every day, and he was so healthy."

Bobby was silent.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face wiping away the moisture, getting control of himself, and turned back to her.

Her jaw was tight, mouth in a stubborn line, and he could see that she was trying to rein in her emotions. She searched his face, asking for an explanation.

Dean looked for the right words. He knew that Sam had told her they were hunters, but he also knew that she hadn't believed a word of it. However, she started to speak before he could try to explain.

"Was it..." She started, but trailed off, closing her eyes for a moment as if trying to gain inner strength. She glanced at the other families waiting in the room and kept her voice low. "Was it something that you hunt? Something supernatural," she swallowed, "like a...monster?"

Rage at what Castiel had done stabbed Dean in the gut, and he clenched his jaw. A monster was exactly what Castiel was, now. Voice tight, he answered, "Yes."

Fury flashed in her eyes, and she looked as mad as Dean felt. "Then find something fucking supernatural to fix him! Find a fucking witch or genie or something and _save_ him," she pleaded.

Dean felt the sharp bite of her words. His hands fisted, and he wanted to punch something. "You think we haven't fucking tried?" he snapped.

Balthazar, their only other angel ally, wasn't answering their summons, and they feared that Castiel had gotten to him. Castiel, who, in another lifetime, would have been their first choice, was, of course, out of the question.

Dean had even sent up a prayer to the big man himself, to the real God, wherever he was, but Dean didn't have much hope. God had never helped them before, so why would he start now?

They'd put out some calls to other hunters in the hopes that someone might come up with a spell or a healer or something to at least buy them some time, but, so far, they hadn't heard anything, and time was running out. Sam was barely hanging on by a thread.

Azlin's posture was stiff and hostile, but Dean could see desperation in her eyes that mirrored his own.

He understood in that moment that she was going through the same denial and anger that he'd gone through just hours ago, and he realized she hadn't meant to blame him. "We're trying, Azlin," he said tiredly. His voice was like gravel, and he cleared his throat. "But we're down to the wire." Again, the grief hit him, and he was unable to speak.

Bobby put a hand on Azlin's rigid shoulder, the sorrow in his eyes painful to see. "Sam's kidneys, lungs, and liver had already started failing by the time we got him here," Bobby said softly. "Sam's..." He stopped for a moment and looked away, jaw working. "There's no brain activity, Azlin. At all."

She stood there a moment, no change in her expression, and Dean wondered if she had comprehended what Bobby said. Finally, she sat numbly down in one of the chairs and stared vacantly at a spot on the opposite wall. They were all quiet, and then she said in a dazed tone, "I don't believe it. Can't they keep him on life support until you can find something to help him?"

Dean slumped down in the chair next to her, and Bobby took the chair on the other side.

"He's already coded twice," said Dean. "Most—most of his organs have shut down. We asked them to try to resuscitate him until you got here, but they almost couldn't get him back the last time." He swallowed, barely able to talk. "We wanted you...to have a chance to say goodbye. He would want you here."

"Would he?" she said. Self-reproach crossed her features, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, looking away for a moment. Then she looked at Dean, her blue eyes even brighter and more vivid than usual, but there were no tears. "I told him he was crazy, that we could get him professional help."

Dean sighed. "Hey," he said softly, "it's not everyday you learn your boyfriend helped stop the Apocalypse and was resurrected from hell."

She put her head in her hands. "I should have believed him. The look on his face—I hurt him deeply." She then sat back in the chair and looked at Dean. "He never called me."

Dean shook his head, remembering the disappointment and worry on Sam's face when they'd been at the hospital where they'd taken Lisa. Sam had tried again to call Azlin but had only gotten her voice mail. "He called several times. You never answered, so he left messages."

She furrowed her brow. "There was nothing on my phone when I checked." "

"He called you," Dean said with certainty. "I saw him do it at least three times, and I know he probably tried when I wasn't around, too. I think he tried to get messages to you through your assistant and Chad, too. He thought that maybe Justin was keeping him from reaching you."

She went pale again and looked up to the ceiling, her fingers steepled on her lips, trembling. She looked like she might finally cry, but then she seemed to steel herself. After a moment, shaking her head in disbelief, she said under her breath, "Justin, you fucking asshole." She seemed far away for a moment, and then she looked to Dean and asked, "Was Sam—was he—what did he say?"

"He wasn't happy about it, especially since he knew you were with Justin, but it was a stressful time. A lot of heavy shit was going down."

She waited for him to elaborate.

Dean sighed again. "It's a long story, and shortly after he called you the last time, he was...unaware of what was going on. He was unconscious for several days."

She looked at him with confusion. "I don't understand. Why didn't you take him to a hospital right away?"

Dean hated this. It was too difficult to explain, especially in the current circumstances. "We couldn't."

Azlin stiffened again, looking outraged, and Dean knew his simple answer wouldn't be enough for her. It wouldn't have been for him, either. "What do you mean you couldn't?" she asked angrily.

Bobby broke into the conversation. "Now ain't the time to get into everything," he said quietly, and his gaze indicated a tall doctor, mid-forties, in blue scrubs and a white coat heading toward them. It was Dr. Zaltsman, Sam's cardiologist.

The doctor approached with a grim expression on his face, and Dean's heart almost stopped, knowing what it meant.

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, "but almost all of Sam's organs have completely shut down now, and his blood pressure is extremely low. He could go into cardiac arrest again at any time, and the consensus is that it would be futile to try to resuscitate him again." He took in Azlin, still sitting between Bobby and Dean.

Dean had explained to the doctor earlier that Sam would want Azlin to be there and that they were waiting for her. The doctor had obviously figured out who she was and said, "If you want to see him, now is the time."

The three of them stood, and Dean felt like the blood was draining from his body, like a dead man walking, like it was his own death pending instead of Sam's. And, pretty much, it was. He couldn't go through the pain of Sam's death yet again. This time, he didn't even have Lisa and Ben to comfort him, and he knew the pain of losing Sam would kill him. This time, there were no deals to be made, no archangels to bring Sam back, no Castiel to help them.

This time, Sam's death would be final.

**SWDWSWDW**

When they reached the outside of Sam's room, Azlin watched as Dr. Zaltsman excused himself, and then she looked at Dean and Bobby.

Dean's eyes were red-rimmed and solemn, and he looked haggard. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth and said, "You go first, Azlin. Bobby and I—" He stopped short, his mouth tightening, a tremor in his chin. Voice ragged, he began again. "We've already had a chance to talk to him."

Bobby gave a short nod.

Her throat and chest tightened, and she almost lost it then. She'd kept herself in control so far, half in denial and half angry, but Dean's pain cut through her like a knife, made everything that much more real. She nodded, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

As she walked into Sam's room, she had the feeling she was reliving a scene of her life over again and froze. It was similar to the night she'd first seen Sam after he'd come down with pneumonia, the night she'd sneaked in to play her guitar for him. He looked much paler now, though, like all the blood had been drained from him.

He was lying nearly flat on his back, tubes and wires leading from him in all directions to monitors and IV bags, and he was on a ventilator. The beep of the heart-rate monitor was intermittent and too slow, even for her untrained ears. He had on a generic-looking hospital gown that fit loosely to accommodate the cardiac sensors stuck to his chest, and a light-blue hospital coverlet was pulled up just past his hips.

She forced herself to move to the side of his bed and pulled up a chair that was sitting nearby. She sat on the edge of the chair, taking his hand, and was shocked at how cold his skin felt. She laced her fingers with his long ones, trying to will some warmth into him, and noticed a slight bluish tinge under his fingernails.

She gazed at his face, at the strong, broad contours she loved so much, and wanted him to wrinkle his forehead and give her the pensive, brooding look that always made her want to hand him the world on a silver platter. But he was silent and still, and somehow seeing him like this was different from when he'd been in the coma before. Before, he'd seemed more alive, warmer, like there was always the potential for movement, that he would eventually wake up. None of that seemed possible, seeing him now. This was just a shell of Sam, and she knew with heart-wrenching clarity that his essence was already gone.

Her throat closed so painfully she wondered how she was even getting air into her body, and hot tears spilled over and ran down her face. She began to cry silently and, with her free hand, she ran a finger lightly over his forehead, his nose, the small mole on his cheek, the faint cleft in his chin, the stubble of whiskers on his jaw. She wanted to kiss his lips one last time, but they were obscured by the vent tubing. She wanted to memorize his every feature, wanted to sear them into her brain, didn't want them to fade as her parents' had. She could only remember their faces vividly through photos, and she didn't want it to be that way with Sam.

She ran her fingers through his chocolate-brown hair, savoring the feel of it, the softness of it, and ran a thumb over his coarser sideburn. Trying to find her voice to speak, she raised his slack hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, breathing in the smell of him, but it wasn't the spicy smell of her Sam. It was the smell of a strange hospital and bleached sheets and death. Her voice sounding thick and hoarse, she said, "I'm sorry, you know. I should have believed you from the start." She had to stop for a moment, fighting back a sob. "But I believe you now." She swallowed, and added, "Too little too late, right?"

Tenderly, she put his hand to her cheek. "I hope you can hear me wherever you are. I guess if I can believe in ghosts, I can believe there's a heaven." She closed her eyes, memorizing the feel of his smooth skin, the length of his fingers. "And I know that if there's a heaven, you'll be there. If anyone deserves it, you do."

Still holding his hand tightly, she stood and bent over him, brushing his hair back from his face. "I know now you would have kept your promise if you could have. I know that you love me, that you would have come back. It's not your fault." She hovered near his ear and said softly, almost whispering, "I love you, Sam. I always will."

She pressed her lips to his cool forehead and then to his cheek, and then she sat back down in the chair and held his hand pressed to her cheek again. She didn't know how long she remained that way, soaking in the feel of him, not wanting to let him go but knowing she had no choice. When his heart stopped beating, she could hear the blaring monotone of the heart-rate monitor and looked up to see the flat line where peaks and valleys should have been. Alarms from the other various machines started protesting, and Dean and Bobby appeared in the doorway, both looking stricken.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, then. Two nurses ran in followed by Dr. Zaltsman, and Azlin moved over to the door by Dean and Bobby, feeling disembodied, as if she were watching a scene from someone else's life.

Dean, who had seemed to be accepting everything, suddenly looked panicked and yelled, "Do something! Don't let him die!"

The doctor looked at Dean with compassion and then at Bobby and shook his head.

Bobby put a hand on Dean's arm to restrain him. "Dean, it's time to let him go, son."

Dean shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks, his face red and etched with grief. "No, goddamn it! Sammy, don't you die on me! Don't you fucking do this to me again!" He looked ready to fight.

Azlin wrapped her arms around herself, sobbing, feeling as though her heart was shattering into a billion pieces. Part of her felt the same as Dean, but she knew in her soul that Sam was gone, that even if they got his heart beating again, he still wouldn't come back.

Bobby, ever the voice of reason, tried to calm Dean. "Let him go, Dean. It ain't Sam anymore."

Dean drew in a jagged breath. As Bobby's words sunk in, his shoulders slumped, and the fight left him. "Sammy," he breathed, and a light seemed to go out in his eyes.

The doctor nodded to the nurses, and they began turning the machines and the alarms off. They started unhooking all the catheters, tubes, and IVs and removed all the sensors that were stuck to Sam's chest. They turned off the ventilator, it stopped its steady click and hiss, and Sam's chest was still.

Azlin felt all the air leave the room and started to feel nauseous.

Dr. Zaltsman looked at a clock on the wall. His tone was quiet and respectful when he said, "Time of death..."

But Azlin didn't hear the rest. She shoved past Bobby and Dean and ran to the nurse's station.

The nurse at the desk reacted quickly, recognizing someone who was about to throw up without Azlin ever saying anything, and handed Azlin a trashcan.

Azlin heaved up what little contents were in her stomach, suddenly feeling lightheaded and panicky. More tears ran down her face, and she could feel the nurse patting her on the back, trying to comfort her.

When Azlin was sure there was nothing left, she handed the trashcan back to the nurse, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and ran for the stairs. She had to get out of there, and she couldn't wait for an elevator. Her body just needed to move, to escape the agony of what had just happened. She jerked the heavy door leading to the stairwell open and started running, taking the steps two at a time—running and running and running. The weight of losing Sam was smothering her, crushing her, and she needed to be free.

She needed to find a way to end the pain.

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: (sniffle) Well, I'm depressed. How about you?**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: Dear readers, I felt bad for ruining your weekend, so here's the next one. Love ya!**_

**Chapter 19**

Sam felt himself floating, could see Dean and Bobby below him performing CPR on his unconscious self. He wanted to get to them, get back to his body, but a force he couldn't see kept pulling him farther and farther away. Finally, he turned to see a tunnel illuminated by a bright, white light.

Oh, no. As Dean would say, that was so not good. At least he was going up and not being dragged away by hell hounds. It was different from the other times he'd died, but somehow he knew it was still the real thing. He started to feel panicky, his mind racing, trying to figure out how to get back to his body, how to get back and keep his promise to Azlin, how to get back and help Dean and Bobby. As he got closer to the tunnel, however, an overwhelming sense of peace warmed him, and his worries faded away. He felt whole, no longer plagued by guilt and the horrors of hell. To his surprise, he saw his mom and dad smiling at him, beckoning to him to come toward them.

"Mom?" he managed to utter. She looked beautiful, like an angel—not the Castiel kind of angel, but the kind of angel he'd thought she would be when he was a kid—ethereal, radiant, beautiful. She was dressed in a white, lacy dress that went almost to her ankles, and she wore her long, blond hair down around her shoulders.

She smiled and reached out her hand.

When he reached out to her and took it, he suddenly realized they weren't in a tunnel anymore, but were walking down a residential street. It was the perfect day, the kind of day where the sun was warm enough to wear shorts but not scorching. All the lawns were perfectly green and manicured, and there were kids playing tag at one of the houses across the street. It was the kind of neighborhood he'd always dreamed about when he was a kid, the kind of neighborhood they would have lived in if Yellow Eyes hadn't murdered his mom and torn their world apart.

His mom put an arm around his waist and hugged him, and his dad put a reassuring hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. His Dad. Sam had been so mesmerized by the sight of his mother, he'd barely acknowledged his dad's presence. He turned to John, and John quickly drew him into a tight bear hug.

"Dad?" said Sam, and he felt overwhelmed with happiness. He'd longed for this moment his whole life, to be able to have both his parents together, to have them both alive, to have his family whole again.

His dad eventually loosened his embrace but still held his hands on Sam's shoulders. Sam was taller than his dad, who was closer to Dean's size, but, as usual, John had a rugged, commanding presence that Sam had always secretly been in awe of, even during the years that they hadn't gotten along. John gave Sam's shoulders a squeeze, a look of pure joy on his face that Sam had never seen on him when he'd been alive. "It's good to see you again, son."

Sam felt a lump in his throat and said softly, "Yeah. You too, Dad." There were so many things he wanted to say to both of them, but he didn't know where to begin.

They stopped walking in front of a charming colonial-style house with a red front door and a white picket fence. His mother reached up and put a soft hand on his cheek. "Let's go inside, Sam. Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich."

It was the kind of motherly thing he'd always imagined she might say to him, the kind of thing he'd never experienced. He thought of Dean's version of heaven, of Dean's memory of her before Sam had been born when she'd made Dean a PBJ. "Could you—could you make it peanut butter and jelly? And, uh," he added, feeling a little sheepish, "would you mind cutting off the crusts?"

She gave him a sweet, indulgent smile. "Of course."

Sam closed his eyes, unable to believe what he was seeing.

He felt his dad clap a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go, son. I'm sure you've got a lot of questions."

Sam opened his eyes and smiled a little. "Uh, yeah. I guess I do."

They made their way into the house and Sam and John sat at the kitchen table while Mary got out the bread and jar of peanut butter from the pantry. She went to the refrigerator and, opening the door, looked at Sam and said, "Grape or strawberry jelly?"

Sam watched her in awe, speechless. He was in, well, heaven.

"Sam?" she prompted, eyebrow quirked in amusement.

Coming to his senses, he gave as much gravity to the choice as he would have if he'd been four years old. Finally deciding, he said with conviction, "Grape."

John put a hand on Sam's knee. "I'm sorry you never had this, Sam."

"It's okay. You had to be everything to us, and I know it wasn't easy."

"Still, no one should have had to grow up in the life that you boys did."

It seemed so natural, this open discourse that he was having with his dad, but when John had been alive, they never would have had a talk like this. Winchesters kept their feelings to themselves, held everything in. He looked into John's eyes. "I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time, Dad. I'm sorry for the things I said, you know, at the end. I'm sorry you had to live without Mom."

John returned his look, shaking his head a little, his eyes bright. "It's all right, son. We both said things that we didn't mean. And don't blame yourself for what happened to your mother."

Sam had always felt guilty, always felt that he was to blame for his mother's death. If he'd never been born, Yellow Eyes wouldn't have had a reason to visit their house on that fateful night and killed her.

Mary set a plate with a plump PBJ sandwich on it, without crusts, in front of Sam and rubbed a tender circle on his back. She bent near his ear and said, "It wasn't your fault, Sam. You were an innocent baby, and I loved you. I would have died a thousand times over to try to save you."

Sam froze at her words, and his vision blurred. Swallowing hard, he said, "But the demon, he did something to me. He—"

"Shh," she said, shaking her head. "I know what you're thinking, but what he did to you didn't make you a monster, Sam. You are good. You always have been. You don't have an evil bone in your body, and you handled what Azazel did to you better than most people would have."

"But I did so many bad things. I—I started the friggin' _Apocalypse_."

His dad spoke up. "It wasn't you that broke the first seal, Sam."

Sam was quick to defend his brother. "You can't blame Dean for that. He was tortured in hell."

His dad said in a soothing tone, "No one is blaming Dean. The point is, there were reasons he broke the first seal. It's not like he wanted to do it."

Sam let John's words sink in.

John continued. "It was the same for you, Sam. You were manipulated by Ruby. She took advantage of your grief over losing Dean and your desire for revenge, and she used you, tricked you, led you to believe that killing Lilith would stop the Apocalypse. You didn't know."

Sam shook his head. "I was so arrogant, so self-righteous, thought I knew what was best. God, I was so screwed up. I drank—" He stopped himself, unable to say it in front of his mother.

She sat down in the chair next to him and grabbed his hand, squeezing it in reassurance and then kissing it. "I know about the demon blood, Sam. I know that you drank it, but I also know why you did it. You thought you were helping people, that you could exorcise a demon from an innocent person without killing them. You thought it would give you enough power to defeat Lilith."

Sam drew in a breath, his throat aching. "But I couldn't stop," he said in a ragged whisper, and warm tears slid down his cheeks. It was strange that he didn't feel unmanly crying in front of John, and when he looked at his dad, John had tears flowing down his face, too.

"Son," said John, "everyone does things they're not proud of. You need to forgive yourself." He gave him a weighty stare. "You've paid for your sins, Sam, and you paid way more than what you owed. You've been forgiven. That's why you're here."

"But, Dad, I—the time period my soul was missing, I did—I hurt people. I shot an innocent girl. I tried to kill Bobby." He swallowed as an overwhelming wave of guilt and shame assailed him. "I let Dean get turned by a vampire," he admitted in a barely audible voice.

"Sam," said Mary, "I know it's painful to think about what you did, but it wasn't _you_. And think about why you didn't have a soul. It wasn't your choice to be without one. It was something you didn't have any control over, a mistake made by whoever it was that brought you back. You willingly went to hell, sacrificed your life to save the world. What more could you possibly do to atone?"

Sam wanted to argue, to tell her that he wanted to go back and try to make amends for the things he'd done since he'd come back topside, but she placed her palm on his cheek, and he felt that surge of warmth suffuse him again, the sense of tranquility that he'd felt earlier. He'd never felt anything like it in his entire life. It was love and happiness and accord all rolled into one, and the terrible angst he'd felt just moments ago was washed away. He took a deep, cleansing breath. "So, is this—I mean, is this the real heaven?"

His dad chuckled. "Yeah. It's the real deal."

Mary gave Sam's hand another squeeze. "Before, when you and Dean—what you were told was heaven was a distortion of it. Zachariah selected memories from both you and Dean and used them to pit you against each other, used a horrible caricature of _me_ to influence you. There is no pain here, Sam, only peace, contentment, and understanding. In the real heaven, Dean would have never gotten mad at you or been hurt by your memories."

Sam frowned at the mention of Dean again. There was something he was forgetting, something he needed to do. He looked from Mary to John, trying to remember. And then it dawned on him that his family wasn't whole after all, that Dean wasn't there with them, that Sam had been trying to get back to his body before he'd encountered his parents. He had to get back to Dean. He couldn't leave him alone. There was something else, too. Another reason he couldn't stay. A promise he'd made.

As if reading his mind, John said, "Dean will be okay, son. Bobby, too."

"There's something else, Dad, a promise that I made. I can't remember what it is exactly, but I know it's really important."

His father frowned fleetingly. "Yes, I know."

Sam found it slightly disturbing that his father had nothing else to say about it. "I need to get back," he stated.

"Sam, you have to let it go," said John. "Your place is here, now."

But Sam couldn't let it go, and he fought the placid energy that threatened to make him forget. He couldn't be dead. He had to get back.

"Sam, don't fight it," said Mary.

He shook his head, his breathing more rapid. "I'm not dead, yet. Dean and Bobby, they did CPR. I'm not dead."

"Technically, no," John conceded, "but you will be soon. Your body can't hold on, Sam. You belong here, now."

Sam felt stifled suddenly, and it was hard to breathe.

John and Mary shared a look of alarm.

_A promise. A promise. _What was the promise? He needed air. He couldn't think. The kitchen that had seemed cozy before seemed to be closing in on him now, and he rose hastily, nearly knocking his chair over. There was a door leading from the kitchen that Sam assumed led to the backyard, and he ran toward it, jerked it open, and stumbled into the sun. Bending over, he put his hands on his knees, taking in gulps of fresh air, until he felt himself calm. He felt the peaceful feeling again, but he fought to keep his memories intact. It was like he was already forgetting his old life, though, like it was fading away, and it was getting harder and harder to hold onto it, to remember why he needed to get back.

Feeling less claustrophobic, he slowly straightened and took in his surroundings. He was in the most beautiful, lush garden he'd ever seen. He turned back to his parents' house, but instead of the quaint house, he only saw more garden, miles and miles of it. He had a vague thought that he should be upset that his parents had disappeared, but he wasn't. It was hard to feel anything but calm, and he, ironically, fought to hold on to the residual feeling of panic and urgency he'd felt just minutes before.

He saw roses of every color and hundreds of different flowers he didn't know the names of, comforting shade trees, a soft carpet of green grass, and a crystal blue stream running through the middle of it all. Suddenly, in a flash, he was hit with memories of Azlin, of her stunning eyes that were the same color as the stream, and it almost brought him to his knees. How could he have not thought about her, not remembered? He clenched his eyes shut, trying to visualize her face, her porcelain skin, the amused quirk of her mouth. God, how he loved her. How could he have forgotten her, even for just a short time? He had to get back. He couldn't break his promise to her. It would devastate her, and he couldn't stand the thought of her in pain.

But how? How was he going to get back? He opened his eyes and turned in a circle. He was alone in the vast paradise that suddenly seemed oppressive in it's infinite beauty. "Hello!" he yelled.

There was nothing but the cheerful chirping of birds and the gurgling water of the stream.

"Hello! Mom? Dad?"

Nothing changed.

"Come on!" he yelled in frustration. "Somebody!"

A fairy-like yellow butterfly landed on his hand, as if to mock him, and he shook it off, trying to think through what to do. "The stream," he said to himself. His dad's words of wisdom came back to him. _If you're lost in the woods, Sam, try to find a stream and follow it downhill. Eventually, you're bound to run into civilization._

Sam didn't know if that applied to magical streams in heaven, but he had no other options. He went over to the stream, crouched down, and scooped up a handful of the pure, inviting water. It was cool and pleasant and tasted refreshing. He felt his unease subside, and his mind seemed to sharpen and clear, but he could feel his memories begin to slip away again, and he focused on the color of the stream to help him remember Azlin's eyes.

He walked downstream for what seemed like forever, but, at the same time, it wasn't unpleasant or tiring. He was sort of in a meditative state, forcing himself to ignore all thoughts except for his goal. He couldn't leave Dean alone, and he had to get back to Azlin. He had to get back before it was too late. He concentrated only on these thoughts and on putting one foot in front of the other, following the stream that was his link to the woman he loved.

Finally, he saw a cottage in the distance. It was white-washed with crosstimbers and a thatched roof, like something from a Disney movie. As he approached it, he saw a black man pulling weeds from a garden to the side of the cottage. The man was small in stature and wore gardening gloves, but when he stood to face Sam, he had a dignified, wise air about him that commanded instant respect.

Sam recognized him from the first time he and Dean had supposedly been in heaven. "Joshua?"

The angel nodded. "Hello, Sam. We're not surprised you're here. Your will is stronger than most."

Sam frowned, not understanding. "Who's 'we?'"

Joshua gave him a smile. "I think you know to whom I'm referring."

"You—you mean God?"

Again, Joshua nodded. His tone serene, he said, "You are fighting the calming effects of heaven. Most people aren't able to and eventually are at peace, but you are resistant. As I said, your will is strong."

Sam's pulse began to quicken. Maybe this was his chance to find a way back. "Can you help me?"

Joshua was silent, taking off his gloves and picking up a spade that was lying on the ground. "You want to go back."

"Yes. Please, can you send me back like you did before?"

Joshua eyed him pensively and then began walking toward a picnic table and chairs that sat under a large maple tree.

Sam followed.

When they reached the table, Joshua sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Sam to join him.

Sam, a little wary, did so.

Joshua said, "Why do you want to go back, Sam? Everything you've ever wanted is here—peace, escape from hunting, your parents—even Jessica."

That stopped Sam short. "Jessica," he repeated to himself. He felt an old ache at the mention of her name.

"Everything and everyone you've ever longed for is now at your fingertips, Sam. Why not let yourself have it? If you stay, you will have nothing but happiness for all eternity. You'll be safe, _normal_."

Sam sat back in the chair, contemplating it all. It was tempting, and he could feel his resolve start to slip, the memories start to loosen their hold on him. He could still remember Azlin and Dean, but it was like he was seeing them through a vapor, like they were ghosts that would soon disappear into thin air.

"No more fighting, Sam. No more killing. No more horror. No more heartache. Why would you want to go back?"

Sam swallowed, unsure now. "They need me, Azlin and Dean. I can't...I can't leave them." He was trying to convince himself.

Joshua looked away, a solemn look on his face. "It is true. It will be hard for them, but it's not your responsibility, Sam. You have fulfilled your purpose on Earth. You have been redeemed."

That caught Sam's attention. "Who brought me back from hell? Was it God?"

Joshua shook his head, a faint smile on his face. "No, it wasn't God. Don't you think if God brought you back, he would have brought you back whole?"

"Then who was it?"

Joshua hesitated before saying, "It was Castiel. He did it for Dean. It was...unsanctioned, and he went in by himself. It didn't go exactly as Castiel had planned; he didn't mean to bring you back without a soul."

Sam was shocked. He sat there for a moment, letting the revelation soak in. Finally, he turned to Joshua. "You said I was redeemed. What did you mean?"

"God is pleased with the sacrifice you made to put Lucifer back into his cage. It was a brave and selfless act and more than atoned for setting Lucifer free. He has always had his eye on you and Dean. You are noble warriors."

Sam thought of all the hell they'd been through in their lives and how God had never lifted a finger to help them. He gave a derisive snort and said, "He's got a funny way of showing it."

"He has helped you more than you know, and he would have sent someone to release you from hell if Castiel hadn't gone there."

"What about my soul? Why didn't he help us get it back?"

"There were certain things about you that were useful when you didn't have a soul. He had his reasons. He would have eventually, if Dean hadn't been successful in his dealings with Death."

"Why didn't he bring me out of the coma?"

Joshua gave him a strange smile. "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Think about it for a moment, Sam. Maybe he wanted you to have a chance at happiness."

Sam frowned, not understanding at first, but then, all of a sudden, it was clear. He never would have met Azlin if it hadn't been for the coma. "Are you saying—"

"A match made in heaven?" finished Joshua, quirking a brow.

Sam was stunned for a moment, and then he was irritated, thinking of how difficult his recovery had been. "Christ. Couldn't he have just had us bump into each other at the supermarket?"

The bland expression on Joshua's face reminded Sam of the old Castiel before he'd gone nuclear. "Jesus was not involved in it," Joshua stated as a matter of fact. "Cupid was."

Sam gave him the mother of all eye rolls and said, "Never mind." Then he remembered that he was pretty much dead and asked, "But, if God wanted us together, why am I here? Why is he taking me away from her, letting me die?"

Joshua's face was neutral. "Castiel is the one who harmed you. God had nothing to do with it, and you are not dead, yet. You still have options."

"And those are?"

"God is giving you a choice. You can stay here and be at peace. You can be with your loved ones and live in happiness, and you won't feel any remorse that Dean and Azlin are living without you. In heaven, there is no regret or guilt."

"Or?"

Joshua gave a short nod. "Or you can go back, but you must agree to find a way to defeat Castiel—without killing him. Castiel is one of God's favorites. He wants him to find redemption, just as you did, because he knows that Castiel's heart was in the right place, even if his mind wasn't."

Sam sat there, feeling a bit numb. It was a difficult decision. Castiel was powerful beyond comprehension now, and it was a daunting task that Joshua—or God—was giving him. "How could we possibly defeat him? He says he is the new God. I saw him kill Raphael with a snap of his fingers."

Joshua's expression was troubled. "It won't be easy. Then again, was it easy to stop Lucifer and Michael, to stop the Apocalypse? Still, you succeeded. Especially together with your brother, you are strong and resourceful."

Sam's gut twisted at the thought of how difficult it had been, of all he and Dean and even Bobby had to go through to stop the Apocalypse, the horrible sacrifice Sam had made. Stopping Castiel would probably be even more difficult, and Sam didn't honestly know if he had it in him—or if he had the right to get Dean and Bobby involved in it.

He leaned over, elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. If he stayed, it would all be over. No more hunting. No more pain, physical or otherwise. All he had to do was stay, and he would be in paradise. He'd already had a taste of it, of what the peace felt like, had felt the love of his parents—had felt the love of his mother, which he'd craved all his life. And then there was Jessica, the promise of seeing her again, of telling her how much he had loved her and that he was sorry for what had happened, the chance to be with her again. He'd yearned for that moment so fervently ever since her death.

He agonized over the choice for several minutes, Joshua waiting patiently for his decision, when Sam felt the air around him stir a bit and looked up, seeing the aquamarine water of the stream in the distance. He thought of Azlin again, could almost hear her voice, and he suddenly felt so close to her, felt her love stronger than he ever had. His heart felt like it would burst in reaction to the surge of longing he felt for her. Suddenly, there was no decision to make. He'd made a promise that he meant to keep. As much as Jessica would always hold a place in his heart, Azlin was his life, now.

He looked at Joshua, resolve in his tone. "Send me back."

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

Joshua nodded and reached out to place his fingers on Sam's forehead.

Sam flinched and moved out of his reach. "Wait. What about the memories of hell? I can't fight Castiel if I'm falling apart."

Again, Joshua nodded in understanding. "I will, of course, put the wall back in place and reinforce it. The only one strong enough to bring it down now will be Castiel—his power is equal to God's—so you would be wise to keep it a secret. As long as the wall is in place, you will have no memories of hell, as it was before." He tilted his head to the side and asked, "What about the guilt from when you were soulless? Do you want those memories hidden behind the wall, too?"

It was tempting, but if he let Joshua hide those memories, there was no way he could try to make amends to all the people he had hurt when he returned. He needed to try to make things right, no matter how painful it was for him to remember. He shook his head and answered, "No."

"Are you sure, Sam?"

Sam nodded with grim determination.

"I will make it so that you have the strength to deal with your guilt. You should know that God doesn't hold you responsible."

It didn't make Sam feel any less remorse for all that he'd done, but it was something. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "One more thing?"

Joshua raised his brows in question.

"I want to say goodbye to my mom and dad—and eat my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich."

Joshua's mouth curved in amusement, and he gave a short nod of acquiescence.

**SWDWSWDW**

"Time of death, ten thirty-three a.m." Dr. Zaltsman pronounced, his tone solemn and quiet.

Dean felt Azlin shove past him out the door, had a vague notion that he should follow her, but felt empty inside and couldn't offer her any solace. A piece of him was missing. He stared in stunned silence at his little brother, the brother he had fought so hard his whole life to protect.

Sam was lying there, quiet and still, so ashen and lifeless. Dean watched as the doctor extubated Sam and the nurses began to unhook everything, removing tubes and wires and preparing him to be transported to the morgue. The morgue. Dean suddenly felt the emptiness replaced by anguish and grief, and he felt weak.

Bobby stood silently next to Dean, his arm around Dean's shoulders, tears running down his gruff features.

The doctor came over and faced Dean, his manner apologetic and somber. "The nurses are almost finished," he said. "We'll let you have a few minutes alone with him before we...take him away."

Dean nodded, looking again at Sam, at his failure, and he felt like he was in a black hole of despair.

Then, suddenly, all hell broke loose.

Sam sat up like a jack-in-the-box and heaved in a loud, strained breath of air.

The two nurses next to the bed each took a step back, startled.

Sam looked around, eyes wide and breathing hard, and when he saw Dean, he looked relieved. "Dean?" he said in a hoarse voice between panting breaths.

Dean and everyone else in the room stared dumbly, unable to believe their eyes. Time seemed to stand still, and everyone stood rooted to their spots.

"Dean?" repeated Sam. He swallowed, still out of breath. "I need to find Azlin."

Dean blinked, trying to clear his vision, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the grief and sorrow that still consumed him.

Sam looked to their surrogate father. "Bobby?"

Bobby had a look of sheer disbelief on his face, and the arm that had been comforting Dean fell like a dead weight to his side.

Dr. Zaltsman seemed to snap out of his stupor first and sprang into action. "What the hell?" he said, running over to Sam's bed, and he started barking instructions to the nurses, who were still shell-shocked.

The nurses snapped out of it and quickly put the pulse ox clip back on Sam's middle finger, put a blood pressure cuff on his arm, and began sticking the cardiac sensors back on his chest.

Sam looked down at his chest in confusion and then looked at the doctor. "No. It's okay. You don't understand. I'm okay."

Dr. Zaltsman, in professional mode, ignored him and pushed on Sam's chest. "Just lie down, Sam. Let us see what's going on here." He looked up at the heart-rate monitor. "Heart rate is 172. What's his BP?"

The pretty Asian nurse in charge of the blood pressure cuff answered, "135 over 83."

"Pulse ox is..." The doctor paused, squinted, and then blinked at the monitor he was trying to read. "98 percent? I don't believe it. He was at 75 percent just 10 minutes ago."

Sam looked at him in annoyance and pushed the doctor's hand off his chest. "I'm fine. Really. I don't need to lie down." He pulled the pulse ox clip off of his finger and started trying to pull at the blood pressure cuff, trying to get it off.

Dr. Zaltsman quickly grabbed Sam's wrist and the other nurse put the pulse ox clip back on his finger. "Sam, you need to lie back down. You—you—" the doctor stammered, as if he still couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening, and then quickly regained his professional demeanor. "You just died of heart failure, Sam. Your heart is—was—your heart was not functional. There's no way I'm letting you out of this bed until I know what's going on. Now, your heart rate and blood pressure are both elevated, so we need to make sure they don't keep rising."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, I'm just worked up because of everything that's happened. I'll be fine. I have to get out of here." He looked to Dean, brows drawing together in worry. "Dean, have you talked to Azlin? I have to find her."

Still dumbstruck, Dean couldn't speak.

Dr. Zaltsman's tone was stern and serious, but he released Sam's wrist. "Sam, if you don't lie back and let us check you out, I'm going to have to sedate you."

Sam scowled. "The hell you will. I know you don't understand this, but I don't have time to explain it to you. Back off and give me my clothes. I want to sign out AMA." He looked at Dean, his eyes pleading. "Dean, where are my clothes?"

Dean still couldn't respond.

Sam's jaw tensed, and he emphasized each word. "Dean, get my clothes!"

Although Dean wanted to believe that Sam had miraculously come back to life, he knew with a heavy heart that it was more likely Sam's body may have somehow been possessed, despite the anti-possession tattoo that he had on his chest. Dean gave Bobby a look, and Bobby nodded almost imperceptibly. Both men moved over to the bed, and Bobby took out the flask of holy water that he always carried with him. In one smooth motion, he flung a large splash of it in Sam's face.

Sam's heart rate went up a little more on the heart-rate monitor, and he sputtered and blinked the water out of his eyes. Wiping his face with his hands and then running his fingers through his now mostly wet mop of hair, he said, "It's me, Bobby. I swear. It's me."

Dean looked at Bobby and grinned, his grief fading and a feeling of intense elation washing over him.

Bobby shook his head in disbelief and said, "Well, if that don't beat all. The kid's done it again."

It was the last straw for Dr. Zaltsman, however, whose face was now red, mouth agape in outraged fury. He looked at Bobby and said, "What the hell did you do that for? We've got a man who was _dead_ not five minutes ago, and you throw water on his face? Are you out of your mind?" He looked at one of the nurses. "Call security."

Bobby looked like he was about to reply, but Sam spoke first, his breathing beginning to slow down, and he was visibly trying to calm himself and get control of the situation. "It's okay, Doctor. Please. I know it seems crazy, but, please, let him stay."

Dr. Zaltsman was skewering Bobby with his eyes and didn't look too convinced that he should let Bobby remain.

Bobby looked uncomfortable and held up his hands in supplication. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

Dr. Zaltsman stared menacingly at Bobby for another second before returning his wary attention back to Sam, pushing on Sam's chest with more force. "You need to lie back down, _now_. I don't know what's going on, but your heart stopped just a few minutes ago. We didn't even try to resuscitate because _there was no hope, _and now you've come back to life. It defies all logic, and I wouldn't have believed it if I weren't seeing it now with my own eyes."

Sam shot a desperate, exasperated look at Dean and Bobby and reluctantly lay back down.

Dean said, "Doc, we're all a little shocked right now. I need—could we have a moment alone with my brother?"

The doctor looked at Dean as if he'd lost his mind along with Bobby. "Absolutely not. We need to run a battery of tests to find out what's going on here. We need to find out how strong Sam's heart is and make sure he won't have a relapse. We need to do a CT scan and MRI of his brain and do motor and cognitive tests to make sure there is no brain damage from oxygen deprivation. We need to do a renal evaluation because his kidneys had completely shut down, along with testing his respiratory function. I'm afraid we can't waste any time in case there is something going on that could be life threatening. And, frankly, I want some kind of an explanation for this, for how he was _dead_ and just suddenly came back to life and how he could be functioning and talking, considering the severe level of multiple-organ failure we witnessed."

Dean didn't know what was going on either, and the doctor's words scared him. Whatever it was that had brought Sam back, the thought that it might be only temporary, that Sam's heart could give out and he could die again, made Dean less inclined to help his brother escape. It wouldn't hurt for Sam to have the tests, if only for peace of mind.

Sam reached over and pushed a button on the bed panel to raise his bed up to more of a sitting position.

Both nurses looked at him as if he'd just pushed the DEFCON 1 button and started World War III. It was as if any movement from Sam flabbergasted them, like they were seeing a ghost.

Dean looked at Sam, entering big-brother mode. "I think Dr. Zaltsman is right, Sam. Let's just make sure you're not going to keel over again before we start talking about leaving."

Sam gave him a classic bitch face, and Dean couldn't help but smile, although Sam was clearly annoyed with him. A few moments ago, Dean had thought he'd never see that expression on Sam's face again.

Bobby chimed in. "Dean and the doc are right, Sam. Let's not take any chances."

Sam's jaw tightened. "Look, I have to find Azlin."

"She was just here," Dean said, sensing that Sam was barely controlling himself and was ready to spring. "Bobby and I will find her. You just need to rest and listen to the doc. Let's get you checked out."

Sam eyed him warily. "She was in here with me?"

"Yeah."

"Where did she go?"

Bobby cleared his throat and said, "She ran out just a second ago. She can't have gone far."

Sam was quiet, a pensive look on his face, and then he closed his eyes and said with dread, "Oh, my God. She saw me die, didn't she?" He opened his eyes and looked at Dean with alarm. "She thinks I'm dead."

"We'll find her, Sam," said Bobby with reassurance.

It wasn't good enough for Sam. He threw the covers off of him and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He didn't seem self-conscious at all that his legs were bare from the thighs down and he had a major draft in the back of his hospital gown and wasn't wearing any boxers. "I have to find her!"

Dr. Zaltsman nodded curtly to the Asian nurse, who quickly left the room, and then he began to try to restrain Sam and push him back down onto the bed, pushing on Sam's shoulders.

Sam fisted his hands in frustration and then grabbed the doctor's wrists, and Dean knew that it was only a matter of time before Sam lost his barely-leashed self-control and belted the doctor.

Dean stepped into the fray, grabbing at Sam's hands, trying to get him to let go of the doctor. Sam was surprisingly strong for a guy who'd been dead just moments before, and Dean looked to Bobby for help.

Bobby grabbed Sam's left arm with both hands, and Dean did the same with Sam's right arm, and together they pried his hands off the doctor's wrists.

Seeing that Dean and Bobby had Sam's arms relatively restrained, the tall doctor flung his body across Sam's thrashing legs before Sam could manage to kick somebody.

Sam began to fight in earnest, then, the heart-rate monitor going wild as Sam's pulse sky-rocketed and he tried to twist out of Bobby's, Dean's, and the doctor's restraining hands.

Dean made his voice authoritative, just like his dad would have done. "Calm down, Sam! That's enough!"

But Sam fought as if his life depended on it. He wrenched the arm that Dean was holding out of Dean's grasp and got in a punch to Dean's jaw that made Dean's eyes water.

Dean managed to get a hold of Sam's forearm again and pinned it to the mattress with both hands. Sam's heart rate seemed alarmingly high, now, and Dean was starting to get worried. "Easy, Sammy," he soothed, trying a different tact. "Azlin'll be fine. Just calm down, and Bobby and I will find her while the doc takes care of you."

"Let me go, Dean!" yelled Sam, and he fought with renewed vigor, his breathing rapid and angry. Not a moment too soon, the nurse who had left earlier came in with a syringe and, without hesitation, plunged the needle into Sam's thigh muscle.

Sam's jaw hardened, veins in his neck popped out, and his face went red with exertion. "You don't understand! I have to find her!"

A few long minutes after the nurse gave the shot, Dean thought he felt Sam's strength lessen fractionally, and prayed the sedative would work fast. "Easy, Sammy. Everything will be okay."

Sam closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, as if trying to fight the effects of the medicine. "You don't understand. She'll be devastated. She..." Sam trailed off, as if losing his train of thought, and blinked, his heart rate slowing on the monitor.

Dean felt the fight start to leave Sam as the tension in Sam's muscles began to wane, and he lessened the death grip he had on Sam's arm.

Dean met Bobby's eyes, his own guilt at manhandling his recently dead little brother echoed in the features of their grizzled old friend. It had to be done, though. They needed to make sure Sam would be okay. They would find Azlin once they got Sam calmed down.

Dean looked at Dr. Zaltsman and nodded, and the doctor gingerly let go of Sam's legs and stood up.

Sam gave Dean a fierce look and weakly grabbed a fistful of Dean's shirt. He was struggling to stay awake now and blinked his eyes and swallowed. "Find her, Dean. She—" He stopped abruptly as a rush of the sedative hit him.

Dean felt Sam's grasp on his shirt loosen.

Sam's eyes looked unfocused, but the desperation and worry in them was unmistakable. "I'm afraid...for her, Dean." His words were beginning to slur, and his arm fell to his side as his eyes fluttered shut.

Dean thought Sam had succumbed to the drug, but then, eyes closed and voice weak, Sam said, "Find her...before...it's too late."

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: You guys didn't really think I could kill Sammy, did you? Stay tuned. Just a couple more chapters to go. Thanks for the reviews, and keep 'em coming!**_


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Hiking the straps of her unused overnight bag and purse up higher on her shoulder, Azlin paid the taxi driver that she'd called to pick her up from the Broken Bow Airport. She'd had to call from the office phone at the tiny airport because she'd lost her cell phone in the stairwell at the hospital. She had been running down the stairs, distraught and devastated, and her phone had rung. When she'd seen that it was Justin calling, she'd thrown it against the wall, not even breaking stride. Besides, she didn't need it. There was no one she wanted to talk to anymore.

She turned to face the cabin. It wasn't really a cabin, more like a rustic, log house, and it was secluded and peaceful nestled in the tall pines of her family's lakefront property. It had always been a place of refuge for her, but now it was a reminder of this last week—a testament to the betrayal of a friend and her forced exile from Sam.

Just thinking his name caused a tremendous, crushing ache in her heart, but she fought to keep her grief under control. She'd been crying almost constantly for the last four and a half hours, since she'd run away from the hospital in Sioux Falls and flown back on the charter plane to Broken Bow. She was exhausted, her head pounded, and her throat and nose were swollen and sore from the strain of so much sobbing.

She could hear the crackle of the taxi's tires on the gravel of the long driveway as it drove away. It was late afternoon, and the tall pines cast a gloomy, dappled shadow over the driveway and cabin. She walked past Justin's black Mercedes roadster sitting in the driveway near the front steps of the house, and the thought of him made her skin crawl. She hated him for what he'd done.

She took the keys to the cabin out of her purse and was about to fit the key in the lock of the front door when it opened, and she was facing Justin in the threshold.

Justin swung the door open wide and stepped forward, enveloping Azlin in a smothering embrace. "Oh, thank God. I was so worried about you."

Azlin stood there stiffly enduring Justin's touch until he finally let her go.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern furrowing his brow.

She pushed past him into the house, throwing her keys, purse, and bag on the nearest sofa, and turned to him, arms crossed over her chest, not answering.

"Azlin, why didn't you wake me this morning? What happened? I found the note on the kitchen counter this morning that said you'd gone to see Sam. You could have given me some more details, you know. I've been climbing the walls wondering if you're okay. You could have at least called me."

Azlin kept her face devoid of emotion, her voice icy calm. "There wasn't time this morning to write more details, and I lost my cell phone."

"Where did you go? Where's Sam? Did you see him?"

Azlin closed her eyes for a moment as a wave of grief washed over her and her throat began to tighten. She swallowed, fighting tears, and opened her eyes to see Justin staring at her, worry etched on his face. The sight of him enraged her. "Yeah," she said, forcing herself to be calm, "I saw him."

Justin looked away for a second, his posture uneasy.

"He was in Sioux Falls, South Dakota," she said, closely watching Justin's reaction.

He wrenched his focus back to her. "You—you went to South Dakota?" he asked with widened eyes, "and you're already back?"

"Yeah. I hired a charter plane to fly me there and back, and there—" she cleared a painful lump from her throat, "—there wasn't any reason to stay."

Justin tilted his head a little to the side and looked sympathetic. "I'm guessing things didn't go well?"

She gave a despondent, bitter laugh. "No. Things didn't go well."

He came over and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them in a comforting gesture. "Is it—is it over?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, "it's over."

He drew her into another hug. "I'm sorry, Azlin. I know it hurts right now, but maybe, in time—"

She shoved Justin away from her and said with venom, "Get the fuck away from me."

He looked momentarily shocked and loosened his arms, but then his expression changed to compassion. "I know you're hurting, Azlin. Let me hold you. I can get you through this."

"How, Justin? How are you going to get me through this?" she asked angrily. Before he could answer, she strode away from him and headed toward the guestroom where he'd been sleeping.

Sam had suspected Justin of keeping his messages from her, and, considering how out of it she'd been all week, she suspected that wasn't all Justin had done. She tore her way through the drawers he was using, flinging out his t-shirts and underwear, searching.

Justin stood in the doorway, perplexed. "Azlin, I know you're upset, but what are you doing?"

When she didn't find anything, she went into the bathroom, rummaging through his shaving kit bag. She was relentless as she looked in every drawer, nook, and cranny, determined to find what she was looking for.

She was running her hand along the space in between the mattress and box spring of the bed when Justin finally moved from his spot in the doorway and firmly grabbed her wrists, making her stop. "Please, Azlin, let's just calm down here." He maneuvered her to where she was sitting on the bed and started rubbing her back. "How about I make you some tea? It'll help soothe you." He was almost patronizing, like he was talking to a child—or some mental patient.

She stared at him a moment and then nodded.

"I'll be right back."

Azlin watched him leave, and once he was gone, she took off her Converse sneakers and made her way silently to the kitchen.

Justin was standing at the kitchen island made of butcher block, his back to her.

She couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but she was going to find out. She crept up close to him and stood a little off to the side so she could see better.

He was so intent on what he was doing, he didn't notice her. He was crushing a pill with a meat tenderizer, and while he was doing that, the microwave beeped. He went over to it and pulled a steaming mug of hot water out of it and dropped a tea bag into it that had been sitting on the island.

Azlin saw a pill bottle on the counter near the crushed tablet and reached over and grabbed it.

Justin looked up from what he was doing, startled.

She held up the bottle and said, "Is this what you've been doping me with, Justin?"

His face turned red, and he swallowed convulsively. "I—it's just something to help you feel better, to help you feel calm, Azlin. It's harmless." He reached for the bottle.

She jerked it out of his reach and looked at the label. She was shocked when she read what was in the bottle, and rage consumed her. "Rohypnol, Justin? You think roofies, the _date-rape_ drug, is fucking harmless?"

He shook his head, his hands coming up in self-defense, palms up. "It's just Mexican Valium, Azlin. I was only trying to help. I just wanted to make you forget things for a while so you could clear your mind and make better decisions."

She slammed the bottle down on the counter of the island. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. You _drugged _me, Justin. For a week."

"You were so upset when I first found you, almost in shock. I just wanted to help you relax, make you feel better."

"Oh, you relaxed me all right. Tell me Justin, what else did you do to me? Did you screw me while I was unconscious in my bed, play a little hide the salami with me when I was out cold?"

He went pale. "I would never do that, Azlin."

"Oh, so you draw the line at rape, but drugging someone until they're out of their mind is okay."

He looked stricken. "It wasn't like that. I was just trying to protect you."

"Protect me? Oh, that's really rich, Justin. You could have put me into a coma!"

"I was careful. I knew what I was doing."

"You fucked with my phone, didn't you? You erased all of the voice mails Sam left for me."

Justin had the grace to look guilty and glanced away for a moment. "I—I'm sorry, Azlin. You were so distraught after he left, I just thought it would be better if you didn't talk to him until you were more yourself, until you were strong enough to make a rational decision."

"And when would I have been myself, Justin? You sedated me before I even had a chance to think rationally. You had no right to do that, and you certainly had no right to tamper with my phone! Did you erase voice mails from Traci and Chad, too?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached out to touch her.

She gave him a scathing look.

He let his hand drop and said, "It wasn't healthy, the way you reacted to his leaving. It hurt you too much. I wanted to spare you from it happening again. I never should have encouraged you to give him a chance. You're better off without him, Azlin."

Livid, she punched Justin hard in the jaw with a right hook that would have made Muhammad Ali proud.

His head jerked back and to the side in reaction to the blow, and he held a hand to his jaw and winced in pain, panting.

She hardly felt the sting on her knuckles as furious adrenaline coursed through her. "Sam and I would have worked things out if you hadn't interfered, you fucking presumptuous asshole!"

Justin worked his jaw for a moment from side to side as if testing to see if it was broken, and then he reached out his hand again in an attempt to touch her face.

She flinched and pulled away.

Justin drew in a ragged breath and exhaled. "Listen to me, Azlin. Sam hurt you. He _left _you. My God, he stole your fucking car." His face took on a pleading look. "Give me another chance instead. I won't ever hurt you. I'll take care of you, protect you. You can grow to love me as much as I love you."

She shook her head and closed her eyes, unable to speak.

"Look at the pain you're in now, Azlin. Look at what you've been reduced to. You just _hit_ me. Is he really worth this?"

She was sickened by what he was saying and kept her eyes closed, warm tears escaping down her cheeks.

"I don't know what happened between the two of you in South Dakota, but if he really loved you, there's no way he would have let you walk away."

She felt the breath leave her body at his words and opened her eyes. "He's dead."

Justin looked taken aback. "What?"

"Sam is dead. I watched him die. I never got to talk to him again, never got to tell him that I love him, that I was sorry for the fight we had. I could have told him if I'd known he called, if I hadn't been so strung out."

"He's—he's dead? I don't understand. How? What happened?"

She didn't want to go over it with him, didn't want to relive it. She didn't really understand it all herself. In a hollow tone, she said, "I want to be alone."

Justin glanced out the window over the sink and then met her gaze. "I think you need me here, Azlin. You shouldn't be by yourself."

He was right. She shouldn't be alone. She should be with Sam, in his arms, feeling his kiss on her lips, but she would never have that again. She shouldn't be alone, but Justin was a poor substitute. She didn't need his twisted version of comfort and protection. "Pack your things and get the fuck out of my house."

"Azlin, please, you're not thinking clearly. Let me help you."

"How are you going to help me, Justin?" she said angrily. "You gonna drug me with roofies and put me to bed for another week?"

"I was only trying to help, to make the pain go away."

"You manipulated me, Justin, took advantage of how upset I was, and what you did was unforgivable. Get your stuff and get the hell out of here."

"Azlin, let's talk about this. You—"

"I'm done talking. Get out, _now_!"

"Will you be...okay?"

She would never be okay again, but she wasn't going to admit that to him. "As of right now, that's none of your fucking business."

"Just don't do anything stupid."

"Get. Out. I never want to see you again."

He gave her a look of sorrow.

She met his gaze with loathing, and, slowly, he turned and left the kitchen.

When Justin was out of her sight, all the grief that had been temporarily pushed back by her fury at him came flooding back, and she felt a vise-like tightening of her chest, couldn't draw a breath, and thought—hoped—that maybe her heart was stopping like Sam's had. She saw black spots dance before her eyes and braced herself with her hands on the countertop of the island. Scalding tears started flowing from her eyes, and once she was able to finally get a breath, her exhale was a sob so jagged it sounded inhuman to her ears.

She cried hard, then, harder than she ever had in her life. She could feel her eyes almost swelling shut, could feel her sinuses filling and making it hard to breathe through her nose and, yet, she couldn't stop. "Sam," she sobbed. "Oh, God, please, no. Not Sam." She shook her head in denial. "Please, please, please, not Sam!" She clenched her fists, in an agony that there was no cure for except death.

No, she wouldn't do anything stupid. Stupid would be to stay where she was and not do anything. It would be stupid to live with this terrible black void in her heart that ached so badly, that tortured her with every thought and memory of Sam. Stupid would be to sit and do nothing, to wallow in this misery for the rest of her life. She knew what time would do to her, knew what it had done after her parents' death and after Ramsey had left her.

Sure, she'd found a way to exist with the pain, but not a way to really live—that is, until she'd met Sam. She'd been alive again for those months she'd been with him, had been happy beyond her wildest dreams, beyond anything she'd ever thought possible. But fate or God or whatever force controlled her destiny had just been fucking around with her, had made her think she stood a chance at happiness only to rip it away.

If there was a heaven and Sam was there, she knew she wouldn't end up there with him. She hadn't had faith in God in years and didn't deserve heaven anyway; but, at the same time, she didn't think she'd end up in hell either because she was already there now. Living day in and day out without Sam would be hell. If she ended her life, she would just cease to exist. It was a scary thought, of course, but appealing, too. There would be no pain, no joy, no heartache—just nothing.

She heard the front door slam and then heard Justin's car as the engine started and he drove down the driveway. She eyed the bottle of Rohypnol sitting on the counter. It was half full, and she wondered if that would be enough to make everything stop.

It wouldn't be stupid to end her life. The moment Sam's heart stopped beating and he stopped breathing was the moment her life had ended. Living beyond that would be stupid.

**SWDWSWDW **

Sam woke slowly, making his way back through the soupy fog in his head, and blinked groggily. He felt weak, like he hadn't eaten in days, and realized he probably hadn't. In fact, he was really freaking hungry. He could smell the familiar, hateful odor of hospital antiseptic and heard the beeping of a heart-rate monitor nearby. Sunlight streamed in through the blinds covering the window, so it was obviously sometime during the day. He just didn't know what day.

He was lying nearly flat on his back, and he took stock of his body—a pulse ox clip on the middle finger of his right hand, an IV stuck in the back of his left hand, cardiac sensors stuck to his chest, and a urinary catheter in his nether regions. He cringed at that revelation and then became aware that his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The last thing he remembered was fighting with Dean, Bobby, and a doctor, trying to convince them to let him go, that he needed to find Azlin. They'd sedated him, and, now, here he was. Just great.

"Sammy?"

He felt a squeeze on his shoulder and turned his head to see Dean standing by his bed, staring down at him. _Stubborn, overprotective big brother._ He frowned and squinted, trying to get his eyes more into focus, not liking the all-too-familiar feeling of deja vu. It reminded him too much of his recovery from the coma, and he was sick to death of hospitals. Voice weak and hoarse, he said, "Dean?"

"How you feelin', man? They gave you enough sedative to knock out an elephant."

Sam's throat felt dry, and he swallowed. "How long have I been out?"

Dean looked at his watch. "It's almost ten-thirty in the morning, so you were out about twenty-four hours."

Sam widened his eyes in shock, which quickly turned to anger. "Dammit. Talk about friggin' overkill."

"Dude, you were like a wild gorilla. It took three of us to hold you down." Dean glanced at Sam's IV. "They kept you sedated while they ran a bunch of tests on you," he explained. "I guess they were afraid you might fight them again if you woke up while they were poking and prodding you."

Sam sighed. "What were the results of the tests?"

"Preliminary results look good. They're still waiting for the results of the CT scan and the MRI. They want to do cognitive and motor function tests, but they need you awake for that. Doc says your ticker looks good. It's a miracle." Dean gave him a doubtful look. "You wanna tell me what really happened?"

Sam didn't. The fact that Azlin wasn't there by his side told him that Dean and Bobby hadn't found her. He wanted to get out of the damn hospital and go find her, but he wouldn't say that to his brother. He wasn't sure if Dean was out of overprotective mode yet, and he didn't want a repeat of yesterday morning. Trying to appear in control and like he wasn't contemplating escape, he said, "You didn't find her, did you?"

Dean looked uneasy and cleared his throat. "Don't freak. Okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just tell me, Dean."

"A nurse said Azlin was sick to her stomach after you, uh, kicked the bucket. The nurse tried to comfort her, but Azlin ran for the stairwell and disappeared. She's not answering her cell for some reason, but Bobby followed her trail to the airport. She got on a charter plane not long after she left the hospital."

"To where?"

"Someplace called Broken Bow, Oklahoma. She ever mention it?"

Sam frowned. It seemed vaguely familiar.

"Bobby did some research on it, and there's a lake there with some rental cabins and some private residences. He's at his house now trying to get more intel."

Sam nodded. "I think I remember her mentioning it once. She's got houses and condos all over the place, so she's probably got one there."

He had to try to call her. Maybe if she saw his number, she would answer. Maybe there was some reason why she wasn't answering Dean. He pushed a button on his bed to raise himself into more of a sitting position and said, "Is my phone still in my jacket?"

Dean went to a small closet and retrieved Sam's jacket, pulling Sam's cell phone from its pocket. He handed the phone to Sam without comment.

Sam saw that Azlin had tried to call him at three-thirty yesterday morning, just hours after Castiel had stopped his heart and he'd been on death's door. She hadn't known what was going on then, and she'd still tried to call. It gave him a strange sense of hope.

He pressed Azlin's number. It rang a few times and went to voice mail. He immediately pressed the button to redial and was disappointed when he got her voice mail again. He hesitated when it beeped for him to leave a message, and then he ended the call. What was he supposed to say to her? _Hey, baby. Good news. I'm not dead._

He called her phone a third time, and when he heard the message beep, he finally said, "Azlin, it's Sam. The doctors were wrong, and I'm fine. I'm—I'm not dead. It's a long story, but, please, call me. I'm worried about you, and I need to know you got this message and you're okay." He glanced at Dean for a split second and then looked away, feeling self-conscious. "I love you, Azlin. Everything's okay, so call me as soon as you get this."

He ended the call again and absently tapped the phone against his chin. The fact that she wasn't answering her phone gave him a bad feeling, and he hated that he didn't even know for sure where she was. Had she gone back to Justin?

He scrolled through his contacts, found the number he was looking for, and said to Dean, "I'm gonna try Justin."

Dean gave a short nod in acknowledgment.

To Sam's surprise, Justin answered on the first ring.

"_Azlin?"_ Justin's voice sounded hopeful.

"No. It's Sam." Judging by the way Justin had answered, Azlin wasn't with him, and Sam didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

There was no response.

"Justin? Where's Azlin? Have you heard from her?"

There was more silence, and then Justin said, _"You're dead."_

"No. It was a mistake; the doctors were wrong. I'm fine."

A hesitation, and then, _"Azlin doesn't know?" _Justin's words sounded slurred, like he was drunk or something.

"No. I'm still in the hospital, but I've been trying to call her. She won't answer her cell."

Justin laughed, and it sounded strange. _"Well, isn't that ironic? Sorry, Sambo. She lost her cell phone."_

Sam's heart sank, and he gritted his teeth and lay his head back on the pillow. Taking a deep breath, he said, "When did you last see her, Justin?"

"_She told me she never wanted to see me again,"_ said Justin, as if he hadn't heard Sam's question.

Sam was growing impatient, and it was all he could do to maintain his self-control. "Justin, please, tell me where she is. I need to find her. Is she still in Broken Bow? Does she have a place there?"

Justin's voice went up an octave as if he couldn't believe what he was saying. _"Me. The guy who has never done anything but be there for her to pick up the pieces every time she has some fucking tragedy in her life or some guy leaves her, the one guy who's never hurt her—she said she never wanted to see me again."_

Obviously, Justin wasn't going to answer any questions until he had his say. Sam forced himself to sound sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Justin. Why would she say that?"

Justin huffed. _"It's your fault. You left her, and she doesn't want to see me again. You tell me how that makes sense! Why did you leave her, Sam? Why did you hurt her?"_

Sam really didn't want to defend himself to this douche bag, but he couldn't afford to piss Justin off until he got the info he needed. "I didn't leave her, Justin. I had to help my brother with an emergency. I had every intention of coming back."

"_You had a fight,"_ Justin accused.

Sam tightened his jaw, wondering how much Justin knew about that.

"_And you stole her car."_

Sam sighed in frustration. "I didn't steal it, but I shouldn't have taken it without telling her. You're right. I—we—I didn't have time to explain everything to her. It was a matter of life and death, and I had to leave immediately."

Justin ignored Sam's last statement. _"Did you know that car was a gift from her parents for her college graduation?"_

Sam closed his eyes momentarily, feeling a pang of guilt. "I'm going to get it back to her."

Justin continued as if Sam hadn't said anything. _"You should have seen her when I found her. She was a mess. I wanted her to report the car stolen, but she wouldn't let me. Why? Because she was blinded by you."_ Another pause, and then, _"I guess I was, too. I can't believe I actually encouraged her to give you a chance. What the hell was I thinking? I guess I thought maybe if she moved on, finally became involved again, maybe I could, too. All those years she wasn't with someone, I tortured myself by thinking that maybe someday I stood a chance, but it was hell. She ruined every relationship for me because she was always there in the back of my mind, in my heart."_

Justin was starting sound unhinged, and Sam glanced at Dean, who was looking at him with his brows drawn into a frown. Sam wasn't sure what to say. He was afraid if he said the wrong thing to Justin, he'd never find out where Azlin was.

"_Do you know how long I've loved her?_" Justin asked rhetorically._ "I think I first fell in love with her when we were in high school. God knows I tried to make it work with her after Ramsey, but she was numb inside. He sucked anything that might have been left for me right out of her. She felt nothing again until she met you. She loves the smallest hair on your head more than she loves my whole being, and for what?"_ He laughed bitterly. _"You left her and didn't even call her. You knew her fears, right? You knew how she was afraid you'd leave her?"_

Sam knew her fears better than anyone and felt his anger rise—both with Justin and with himself. "I called her many, many times, but you know that, don't you, Justin? You kept her from getting my voice mails, didn't you?"

"She didn't need to be influenced by you. I just wanted to protect her, make sure she didn't feel any pain."

Sam could feel his pulse, heard the beep on the heart-rate monitor quicken, and he sat up more in his bed. "That's bullshit, and you know it. How did you keep her from calling me?"

Silence.

Sam looked at Dean, who had an expression of questioning concern on his face.

"Answer my question, Justin. Even if she didn't get any of my messages, she still would have called me. It's not like her that she didn't."

He could hear Justin inhale and then give an inebriated snort. _"I just gave her something to help her sleep."_

Sam could feel every muscle in his body tense. "What did you give her?"

"_She was upset. I just gave her something to make the pain go away. It was no big deal. I take it all the time to help me relax."_

"You bastard. How much did you give her?"

Justin slurred in a defiant tone, _"Enough for her to feel nothing. Enough for her not to worry that you hadn't called. Enough for her to forget about you."_

Sam released a harsh breath, horrified. Azlin had probably been freaked out that he'd left without an explanation, and before she'd had a chance to think rationally, Justin had drugged her and lied to her and somehow kept Sam's messages from her. Dammit all to hell. And now, to top it all off, she thought he was dead. If Justin were in front of him right now, he would choke the life out of him. "You listen to me carefully, you dick. I will hunt you down and kill you if you don't tell me where Azlin is right now."

Justin gave a sardonic laugh. _"Go ahead. You think I care? Look at what I've become. I'm not afraid of you, and I sure as hell don't owe her anything. Fuck her, and fuck you."_

Sam was breathing hard now, rage and worry for Azlin consuming him.

"Sam?" said Dean, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. He was watching the heart-rate monitor, could see that Sam's heart rate was getting higher and higher.

Sam closed his eyes, trying to think of the right persuasive words, trying to keep his emotions under control. Loosing his temper wasn't going to help Azlin.

Justin said, _"What's the matter, Sam? Cat got your tongue?" _Then his tone took on a dark quality. _"It's killing you, isn't it, knowing that she thinks you're dead? Poor Azlin. I could hear her sobbing hysterically when I left her at the cabin. I sure hope she doesn't do anything drastic."_

A cold chill ran down Sam's spine, and his stomach twisted into a tight knot. "Justin, if you're in love with her like you say, you won't let her suffer. Please, just tell me where the cabin is."

"_Oops. I let it slip about the cabin, didn't I? Well, it shouldn't take you long to find it. There's only a few hundred of them scattered around the lake. Who knows? Maybe you'll get lucky and find it after the first few tries. Too bad she's so private. There won't be any public listings for it. And, darn it, there's no phone there, either."_

Sam tugged at his hair with his hand that wasn't holding the phone. "I'll find her with or without your help."

Justin's slow, thick speech sounded mocking. _"Good for you, Sam. I'm sure you will...but you better hurry. If you're not already too late, please, give her my love when you see her." _Then there was a click, and the line went dead.

"Dammit!" Sam pushed the end button on his cell phone and slammed it down on the mattress. The hear-rate monitor was beeping like crazy, and the sound grated on Sam's already edgy nerves. He wanted to take a sledge hammer to the thing. While he was stuck in this stupid hospital, Azlin was needlessly hurting because she thought he was dead, and in this modern age of cell phones and Internet and instant messaging and GPS, he couldn't reach her. It was unbelievable. He had to get out of this frigging bed and find her.

He looked at his brother, his tone urgent and intense. "Dean, I'll explain everything, but you've got to get me out of here, _now._"

Dean eyed him warily.

"Look, I'm not going to keel over. You said yourself the preliminary tests look good."

Dean's expression didn't change.

Sam sighed in frustration, not wanting to go into everything right now but knowing that full disclosure was the only way to convince his brother.

"Dude, I'm fine. I—I made a deal—"

"You what!" Dean looked ready to kill him.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, listen to me."

"I thought we were done with that shit, Sam!"

"It's not with a demon! Just shut up and listen to me."

Dean gave him a dire look.

"I made a deal with God."

Dean's eyes widened and his brows shot up. "You met _God_?"

Sam was adamant when he replied, "I'm not telling you anything more, Dean, until you _get me the fuck out of here._"

_**TBC**_

_**A/N: Anybody remember those days before cell phones were invented?**_


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N: Here we are, the last chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint. There's just a short epilogue after this that I will post either later today or tomorrow. Let me know what you think! I did a lot of rewrites on this, so I hope it makes sense and there aren't too many typos. I proofed it a bunch, though. I promise!**_

**Chapter 21**

It turned out that signing out against medical advice had been as difficult the second time Sam tried to talk Dr. Zaltsman into it as it was the first time. The doctor and his colleagues still wanted to run several more tests on Sam, but Sam suspected it was more a matter of them not wanting their specimen of a modern-day miracle to walk out the door, rather than worry that Sam's life was still in danger. Sam wasn't about to be a guinea pig, however, and his stubbornness, along with Dean's backup, had finally won out.

While waiting for his release papers and waiting to be unhooked from everything, Sam had called to book a flight to Dallas, which was, surprisingly, the closest large city to Broken Bow, and the next flight out of Sioux Falls was at 12:53 p.m. on United, arriving D/FW at 5:30 p.m. He'd booked it, of course, using a fake credit card. He would have to rent a car in Dallas and drive another three hours to Broken Bow, which meant he wouldn't get to Azlin until at least eight-thirty in the evening, and that's if he drove like a bat out of hell. At least it was Saturday, so there hopefully wouldn't be much rush-hour traffic in Dallas. Still, it was too much time. Not knowing if Azlin was okay for another nine hours was going to drive him crazy.

Dean, having no love of airplanes, had decided Sam could handle being Azlin's knight in shining armor without him. He was driving Sam to the airport in Azlin's car so Sam could make phone calls. Sam's car charger was still in her car, so he was able to plug in his cell and charge its almost-dead battery.

On the way, Sam tried to call Chad to see if Chad could drive over to Broken Bow from Dumas to check on her. Chad couldn't help, though. He and the band were in Corpus Christi, Texas playing a gig later that night, and Corpus was a ten-hour drive to Broken Bow.

Since it was Saturday, Traci and Zelda were both off, and Sam didn't have their cell numbers. Apparently, Zelda didn't have a land line, and Traci wasn't answering hers.

He could waste time calling everyone he knew in Dumas, or he could just break down and call the Broken Bow police, once he figured out where the cabin was, and have them go out and check on Azlin. As much as he didn't want to interact with the police, it made the most sense.

He dialed Bobby.

"_Talk. It's your nickel," _Bobby answered.

"Hey, Bobby. Any luck?"

"_Hey, Sam. As a matter of fact, I was just about to call ya. There ain't no records with Azlin's name on them in any of the databases I found, so I figure, her being a billionaire and all and being a private person, it's probably under some holding company name or sealed. However, I found a realtor in town that manages and maintains vacation properties for their out-of-town owners. I would imagine Azlin might need services of that nature. I can try to call and sweet-talk the realtor, but that's more your area of expertise."_

"Yeah. Thanks, Bobby. I'll do it. Can you give me the number?"

Bobby obliged, and Sam hung up and dialed it immediately, hoping the realtor worked on Saturday. It made sense that she would, since a lot of people shopping for houses wanted to look on the weekend.

Dean glanced at him and said, "You've been on that phone nonstop since we left the hospital. You sure it's not permanently glued to your ear?"

Sam held up his index finger to silence him as the line rang.

Dean looked back to the road, shaking his head.

"_Erma Thompson Realty," _answered a woman's voice.

"Uh, yes. Hi, ma'am. My name is Sam Blackmore. May I please speak to Ms. Thompson?"

The lady on the line laughed. _"You got me. You can call me Erma, though. We're pretty informal around here."_ She had a country-twang accent that reminded Sam of Francine.

"Oh, thanks, Erma." Sam looked at Dean with a faint smile.

Dean rolled his eyes.

Trying to sound as polite as possible, Sam said, "I'm wondering if you can help me out."

"_Well, I can sure try. What do you need? Are you in the market for a house?"_

"Um, actually, no. My girlfriend, Azlin Browne, mentioned your name to me a few times. You manage her lake cabin, right?" He mentally crossed his fingers that he was guessing right.

"_I can't really give out information like that, hon."_

"Oh, I know, and under any other circumstances, I wouldn't ask. But, you see, she thinks I'm coming down on Monday to spend the week with her at the cabin. She came down today to do some things at the cabin and get it ready for the week while I'm supposedly working. I'm—" he cleared his throat and let his voice sound a little shy. "I'm on my way there to surprise her tonight, but I drove off without the piece of paper that has the cabin's address."

"_Oh, goodness. I'm sorry, hon, but I just can't give out that kind of information."_

"I see. I understand. I just thought I'd try, since...well, never mind. Rules are rules, right?"

"_Since what?"_

He cleared his throat again. "Well, I was going to surprise her tonight and ask her to marry me."

Dean arched his brows.

"_Oh, my goodness!"_

Sam waited for a second, and then he said with disappointment, "It's okay, ma'am. I knew it was a long shot; just thought I'd try. Thank you for your time."

"_Hold on there, hon!"_

Sam gave Dean a cocky grin and said, "Yes?"

Dean rolled his eyes again.

Erma's voice still sounded unsure when she said, _"I suppose I could bend the rules just this once. You sound like a nice young man, and Azlin and her family have been our clients for years. It's good to know she's finally found her a man."_

"Oh, thank you so much, Ms. Thompson. You won't regret it. We'll be sure to send you an invitation to the wedding."

"_It's Erma,"_ she reminded, and Sam could almost see the matronly smile on her face.

She gave him the address, and his next call was to the Broken Bow police. He explained that he hadn't heard from Azlin in several days, and they said they would either send out a car, or the park ranger at the lake would check things out and call him back. He didn't explain about his whole dying thing but told them to be sure and tell her to call his cell phone if they found her.

Sam ended the call and leaned his head back against the headrest, sighing.

After a few moments of quiet, Dean asked, "You think you might wanna marry Azlin?"

Sam was shocked by Dean's question and stared at him for a second. Finally, he said, "That was all BS, Dean. You know that."

"I know, but, I mean, someday?"

Sam sat there for a moment. It wasn't that it hadn't crossed his mind, but the last time he'd planned to ask someone to marry him, she'd ended up in flames on the ceiling of their apartment. Besides, he didn't know what kind of future lay ahead of him, especially since he'd made the deal with God to bring down Castiel, and he was afraid to take things any further than one day at a time.

Dean glanced at him and then looked ahead. "It's okay, you know, if you do."

"I think it's a little early in the game to be talking marriage, especially with our lifestyle."

"I'm just saying if it's what you want, you should go for it."

Sam watched the road ahead for a moment and then focused his attention back to Dean. "Where is this coming from?"

Dean swallowed. "I was just thinking of something Lisa said, once. I just don't want to be the reason that you can't be happy with someone."

Sam frowned as a long-held suspicion surfaced. "Am I the reason you and Lisa broke up?"

Dean half-shrugged and said, "Nah. I think we were doomed from the start. I don't do domestic bliss, you know?"

Sam felt a pang of guilt, sensing his brother wasn't telling the whole truth.

Changing the subject, Dean said, "You really think Azlin might do something stupid? She seems like a strong person, not exactly the suicidal type."

Sam drew in a deep breath and said, "I don't know. That douche bag Justin said she was really distraught when he last saw her. She's lost so many people she's loved. Even if she wouldn't seriously, you know..." He couldn't say it out loud, didn't want to give it credence. "I can't stand the thought of what she must be thinking, what she must be feeling."

"Yeah. It wasn't much fun watching you die—again."

"I'm sorry, man."

Dean snorted. "Wasn't your damn fault." He kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and one on the gear shift. It was weird for Sam to see his brother driving another car other than the Impala. It was like Dean was cheating on it or something, and Sam hoped the damage to the Impala wasn't too extensive.

Sam looked at his watch. He was going to be cutting it close to make his flight. He felt the itch of a new beard and wished he'd had a chance to take a shower and shave before leaving the hospital, but there had been no time. Hopefully, he'd at least have time to grab some fast food to take on the plane with him before he starved to death. Whatever they had fed him intravenously in the hospital wasn't going to cut it.

"So, uh, you met God, huh?" asked Dean.

Sam was surprised Dean had waited this long to have this discussion and supposed it was time for an explanation. "No. It was Joshua, you know, the angel we met before, the one that's sort of God's right-hand man. He gave me a choice between staying in heaven or coming back."

"And you came back, obviously."

Sam swallowed. "I had to."

"You couldn't leave Azlin?"

Sam shook his head and added in a barely audible voice, "Or you."

Dean stared out the windshield and was quiet for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if trying to control his emotions. Finally, in a gruff voice, he said, "So what did you have to agree to?"

Sam exhaled. "I have to bring down Castiel—without killing him."

"Jeez, Sam, is that all? Piece of cake," said Dean with false lightness, and he glanced at Sam and then back to the road. His face hardened, and his tone was bitter. "You should have stayed there, Sammy. You had a chance to get out, to be free."

Sam was annoyed, knowing that, had the situation been reversed, Dean would have made the same choice. "I just gave up paradise for your ass, Dean. A thank-you would be nice. Besides, Joshua and, uh, God seem to have a lot of faith in us; that is, if you'll help me. They seem to think we're their best bet for getting Cas to come to his senses."

Dean sighed, looking beat and older than his years.

Sam felt a twinge of sympathy for his brother. He felt it too, that world-weariness that made it hard to get out of bed every day. The only difference between Dean and himself was that he had Azlin. She was his reason for getting out of bed—or staying in it. God, he was so worried about her.

Dean looked at him with narrowed eyes. "What about the wall, Sam?"

"Joshua put it back up and fortified it. It's fine."

"And?" said Dean, arching a brow.

Sam looked out the passenger window and watched the trees and buildings go by in a blur, knowing Dean wouldn't like what he was about to say, and debated whether to tell him. Keeping secrets from his brother had never been a good thing, though, so he reluctantly looked back at Dean and decided to come clean. "The wall is stronger than ever. The only one who can bring it down is Castiel." He left the part about the guilt he felt from his Robo-Sam memories for another discussion. He knew Dean would be pissed that he hadn't let Joshua hide those, too, and he didn't want to get into a debate about why he should or shouldn't try to make amends to those he had hurt.

Dean's jaw tightened. "That's just peachy, Sam. The nuked-up angel that you were sent here to bring down, who already tried to kill you once, is the only person who can fuck with your head. That's...awesome."

Sam shrugged. "So what else is new? He's already screwed with it once. Just don't tell anyone. If Castiel doesn't know he has the power to do it again, maybe he won't figure it out. We'll just have to find out a way to de-juice him before he can hurt me—or you, for that matter. He wasn't too happy with you either, if I remember correctly."

Dean snorted. "Screw bringing Cas back alive. I say we gank him any way we can."

Sam was surprised by Dean's callousness toward the angel that had been like family.

"He brought down the wall in your head, Sam," Dean explained. "He _stopped _your heart from beating. Those are things I can't forget."

Sam said quietly, "He's the one that brought me back from hell, Dean." He paused and then added, "And he did it for you."

Dean frowned in disbelief. "What?"

"He got me out of the cage."

Dean shook his head in denial. "No. That can't be. Crowley..."

Sam was instantly on edge. "Crowley what?"

Dean looked a little guilty. "Crowley said he was the one that brought you back from hell. He wanted you and Gramps to help him find purgatory."

Sam was ticked, could feel his muscles tense. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want you to freak out because it was Crowley—the King of Hell," he added sarcastically. "I didn't want you to rehash all that I'm-an-evil-monster crap because a demon brought you back. I just wanted you to concentrate on recovering."

"I thought we were done with that shit, Dean," said Sam, throwing Dean's words back at him. "Since when has keeping things from each other ever been a good thing?"

Dean shrugged, unrepentant. "You had a lot to deal with. I didn't want to make it worse. Besides, you knew about it when you were Robo-Sam. You just forgot."

Sam clenched his teeth. "That doesn't count." Now that Dean had told him, it had jogged a Robo-Sam memory of Crowley saying that he'd brought Sam back, but Sam didn't like the fact that Dean had let him wonder about who had brought him back the whole time he'd been in the hospital.

"Whatever. What does it matter now? Crowley obviously lied, so let it go." Dean paused for a second and then frowned. "Why would Castiel leave your soul there?"

Sam gave Dean a vexed look but reluctantly let the subject of Crowley drop. Answering Dean's question, he said, "I don't think Cas meant to. He had to pull a Rambo to get me out, and I don't think things went according to plan."

Dean rubbed his fingers over his mouth, looking frustrated. "I don't like this deal, Sam. It's an impossible mission, and you ain't Tom Cruise. Castiel is the new Lucifer, and he has as much or maybe even more power than God. God wouldn't even have taken an interest in you if it weren't for the fact that Castiel is an actual threat to him."

"That might be true, but I don't have much choice."

Dean was quiet for a moment and then, finally, he said, "What if you don't do anything?"

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if you just find a nice beach somewhere and live on margaritas? Pack up Azlin and find your own paradise."

"Are you suggesting that I renege on a deal with _God_?"

Dean shrugged. "What do you owe him?"

Sam was incredulous. "You gotta be kidding me. My life, for starters. Would you rather me be dead?"

Dean swallowed hard before saying simply, "No."

They were quiet, and then Sam said, "I'm sorry, Dean. I don't mean to drag you into this, but I think I'm gonna need your help."

Dean gave him a wry look. "Ya think?"

Sam looked away and didn't say anything, grateful that he had Dean for a brother and feeling guilty at the same time that he was involving him in something so dangerous.

As if sensing Sam's turmoil, Dean said in his deep, gravelly voice, "You don't have to ask. Somebody needs to straighten Cas out—might as well be us. And you know I've always got your back, Sammy."

"Thanks," said Sam softly. He wanted to tell Dean how much he appreciated all that his big brother did for him and that he loved him, but he knew Dean wouldn't want things to get too mushy. Instead, he said, "Dude, you're driving like Bobby. Can't you go any faster? I'm gonna miss my flight."

Dean's mouth curved up at the corners, and the BMW surged as he punched the gas pedal.

**SWDWSWDW**

By the time Sam pulled into the long driveway of Azlin's lake cabin, his nerves were fried. He'd broken every speed and traffic law known to man, cursing the Broken Bow law enforcement entities the entire time he'd been on the road, but he still hadn't gotten there any sooner than what he'd originally estimated.

Except for a very short layover in Chicago in which he'd almost missed his connecting flight to Dallas, he'd been on planes until late afternoon and unable to talk on the phone. When he finally spoke with a sergeant at the Broken Bow police department, he wasn't happy with the officer's report.

A park ranger had gone out to the house and found nothing amiss. He'd supposedly walked the perimeter of the property and house and seen no signs of Azlin. He'd reported that no one came to the door, and it appeared no one was there. The house looked to be locked up, and there was no car in the driveway.

When Sam asked if they could get into the house to make sure Azlin wasn't lying on the floor unconscious somewhere, the cop had said that the ranger had looked in all the windows and hadn't seen anyone. In that way that cops who had seen everything had of being desensitized to worried loved ones, the officer had been unconcerned.

At Sam's insistence, the sergeant said that if Sam didn't hear from Azlin in a few hours, he'd send someone else out. Since Sam would be there himself in a few hours, he'd angrily hung up and prayed that Azlin was still okay and that, if she wasn't, he would get there before it was too late.

He pulled up to the front of the house and got out of the small, cramped rental car, feeling the crisp yet mild chill of the evening air. He noticed the cabin for the first time in the glow of the moonlight. It was one-story, and by the ranch standards, it was small. Well, at least it wasn't huge. It was rustic, the outside made of some kind of unstained wood and logs, and the architecture reminded him of a hunting lodge. It had a cozy appeal and was peaceful with it's surrounding tall pine trees for protection. He could see how it would be a nice retreat from the real world.

He figured Justin must have brought Azlin there a week ago to get her away from the ranch house and anyone that would be sympathetic to Sam. Justin had wanted her isolated, and he had certainly succeeded.

For a brief moment, Sam had the thought that maybe she had gone back home, that maybe she wasn't here anymore, and he hoped that he hadn't just driven three hours to the wrong town in Oklahoma. He'd tried the ranch a couple more times on his drive, though, and Wyatt, who had a room in the stable, had finally answered the stable phone, but he'd said that everything had been quiet at the ranch, and there had been no sighting of Azlin.

There were no porch lights on, but there was a flood light on the side of the house that illuminated the driveway and cabin somewhat, although the front door was obscured by a cover over the porch. Sam made his way up the front steps into the shadows, his heart beating rapidly. He rang the doorbell and knocked, but no one came to the door. Without a second thought, he pulled out his lock-picking tools and had the door open in no time, despite having to work with almost no lighting.

He burst through the entrance and was met with dark silence. There was no moonlight to illuminate the interior, so he had to wait a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He practically felt his way to a lamp, clicked it on, and found himself in a combined kitchen and great room area with a high vaulted ceiling. The house was silent. He looked around, listening, but still heard nothing. Finally, he yelled, "Azlin!"

There was no answer.

"Azlin!"

Still no answer.

"Azlin!"

Nothing.

He turned on a light in the kitchen, looking for signs of life in there, but saw no dirty dishes in the sink and nothing on the counters. He found a half-full trashcan under the sink and was at first heartened that there was evidence Azlin might still be there, but then he felt his heart plummet to his stomach when he saw a pill bottle lying on top of a heap of discarded paper towels and used tea bags.

He hoped at first it might be Azlin's anxiety medication, but when he looked at the label, a cold block of fear settled in his stomach. It was Rohypnol. He remembered from news reports during his college days that it was a dangerous drug, at least ten times stronger than Valium and illegal in the U.S. There had been a rash of date rapes on college campuses using the drug, and, at the time, it had been a big deal. He knew that taking more than just a few of the tablets could be lethal, and there was not a single tablet left in the bottle.

His heart started to beat faster, and he ran down a hallway leading off the great room, flicking on lights and searching each of the four bedrooms of the cabin. The bed in the master bedroom was unmade and rumpled, but Azlin was nowhere to be found.

Back in the great room, he ran his hands through his hair, worried and frustrated, and then noticed a set of double doors that led to the backyard of the house. He opened them and stepped out onto a huge covered deck that ran the length of the house. He turned on a porch light and surveyed the numerous lounge chairs scattered about. They were all empty.

"Azlin!" he yelled, but there was no reply, just the soft lapping of nearby water against the lake shore and the rustle of leaves in the otherwise quiet, tranquil night.

"Azlin!" he yelled again, walking down a set of steps leading to the vast backyard, which ended at the water's edge of the lake.

Still no answer.

The backyard was huge, probably a couple of acres at least, and Sam could see in the distance a small dock jutting out over the water from the shore.

Moonlight reflected off the serene water of the lake onto the dock, and Sam could see in the glow of the light the back of a lone, oversized Adirondack chair. The delicate line of a lax, unmoving, female forearm and hand hung off one of the armrests.

Sam's heart almost stopped beating again for the second time in a day and a half, and he felt a painful tightening in his chest. "No, no, no, no," he repeated to himself, and he began to run toward the dock. "Azlin!" he called, but there was no movement in the hand.

As he got closer, he called her name again. "Azlin!"

There was no response, and his heart began to jackhammer, knowing that he was close enough that she should have heard him. The cold block of fear he'd felt earlier turned into an iceberg.

It seemed to take forever for him to breach the distance to the dock, and when he finally reached it, he stopped behind the chair, panting, terrified of what he was going to find. He forced himself to say in a choked voice, "Azlin?"

Again, not even the smallest response or movement.

His feet felt like lead as he made his way around to the front of the chair.

Azlin was sitting there, head tilted slightly to one side, faint music wafting from earbuds that were in her ears. One arm was splayed over the armrest, and one rested on her belly, her iPod held loosely in her hand. Her pale skin was luminous in the blue light of the moon, her lips were stained a red wine color, and her short hair was the color of midnight. She looked beautiful and lifeless, and Sam felt like he had reached the end of some tragic, Gothic novel.

He noticed a couple of empty wine bottles lying on the ground underneath the hand that was dangling from the armrest, and he felt sick with despair. Wine would only exacerbate the dangerous effects of the Rohypnol.

His hand shaking, he reached over and put two fingers on her pale neck to check for a pulse. He felt the chill of her skin...and the strong and steady beat of her heart.

Relief washed over him in an overwhelming wave, and he fell to his knees in front of her.

**SWDWSWDW**

Azlin was dreaming.

Sam had been in her thoughts constantly since Justin had left, but, strangely, since her breakdown in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, she'd felt calm. She'd gone to bed early last night, had slept almost twelve hours, and dreamed of Sam the whole time.

When she'd woken this morning, he was so much a part of her that it was a shock to find that he wasn't snuggled up in bed beside her. It took even longer for her to realize that he wasn't just in the shower or making coffee in the kitchen or sitting on the deck reading a book, waiting for her to wake up.

Of course, when it hit her that he was gone, that he wasn't going to be walking through the door any minute—or ever—she'd wanted to die. The pain was blinding, and the only thing that kept her from offing herself was the promise of the dreams and the fact that she was a coward. She hadn't been able to think of a quick, painless, clean option for her impending suicide.

She'd thrown the remainder of the roofies tablets down the drain of the garbage disposal in a fit of rage at Justin after she'd finally stopped sobbing, not wanting the drugs he'd betrayed her with to be the instrument of her death, and then she'd had no quick, painless options left in which to commit suicide. She had her Xanax, but she didn't think she had enough to kill herself, just enough to maybe screw her up for a few days or send her into a coma, and she had no desire for that. If she was gonna die, she wanted to be dead. She could take a knife and slit her wrists, but she didn't think that would be painless or that quick, and it certainly wouldn't be clean.

She'd spent all afternoon until sunset walking around the lake, avoiding the occasional hikers or picnickers, and had ended up on the dock of her property, contemplating death by drowning. It would be relatively quick and probably not that painful, but it almost seemed like a sacrilege. She'd been coming to this lake her whole life, had always loved the peaceful, serene waters, the communion with nature it provided. It had been the same for her parents, a refuge for her whole family, and she couldn't stomach the thought of tainting it by drowning herself there.

Besides, she had _felt_ Sam with her on her walk, had almost been able to pretend they were on one of their strolls around the ranch they used to take when he'd come to live there. She had conversations with him in her head and had even caught herself talking out loud to him.

She was pretty sure, too, that if she died, she would just be dead, would just cease to exist, and then she wouldn't have her dreams anymore. It was ironic that she'd cursed her nightmares for so long, had wished she wasn't able to picture the death of her parents so vividly; but, now, she welcomed her overactive imagination. She had conjured Sam so perfectly in her dreams last night, and he had been so lifelike in her daydreams today, that she didn't want to give that up yet by dying. She preferred this alternate reality she was creating for herself where Sam was still alive and visited her daily. Maybe if the dreams stopped, then she would revisit the whole suicide thing, but, for now, she was content to live in this new make-believe world.

So instead of drowning herself in the lake, she'd decided to get her iPod, drag a chair down to the dock, and drown herself in red wine instead.

Her eyes were closed, and she could feel Sam now as she listened to Blink 182's song _I Miss You._ She wasn't usually into the pop punk band's music, but there was something about the more mellow song and its dark, strangely sad lyrics that made her think of herself and Sam. The cello in the song reminded her of the timber of his voice, and as she drifted between sleep and a drunken stupor, she could hear him yelling her name.

Yelling? Huh. It was a little strange for a dream with Sam, but she could go with it. A lot of times, her dreams didn't make sense anyway.

She felt his fingers gently touch her throat, could smell the very faint spice-and-sandalwood smell of him mixed with something stronger and unusual, and she smiled. Then she felt his large hands on her cheeks. She heard his voice again, not yelling this time, but full of love and something that sounded like relief. It merged with the melancholy notes of the song she was listening to and sent a shiver down her spine.

He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and then the kisses moved to her chin and then her jawline and to the side of her neck.

She gave a small moan of pleasure and reached up with her hand, surprised by how real the sinew and muscle of his arm felt.

She could smell his hair now and was a little disconcerted by the faint antiseptic, hospital smell of it, was disappointed that she hadn't evoked the clean, fresh smell that she remembered from his time with her at the ranch. She could feel a lock of it tickle her chin, though, and figured she could live with the random smell, pushing back the thought that it reminded her of the last time she'd seen him. She refused to let that ruin her fantasy.

She felt his thumb trace her eyebrow, pausing for a feather-light touch on her eyebrow ring. Then he traced the outline of her cheek, and she felt both of his beautiful, strong hands cupping her face again. "Azlin," she heard him say distinctly, "open your eyes."

It was more vivid than any of her imaginings so far, so real and completely delusional. She thought that she'd finally, well and truly, gone off the deep end, and she couldn't have been happier. If this was what it was like to be crazy, she'd gladly live this way the rest of her life. If it was the wine, she'd gladly become a drunk.

She heard him say in a loud voice heavy with feeling, "Azlin, I'm okay. Open your eyes and look at me."

She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid that when she saw nothing but empty air, it would break the trance she was in and destroy her heart.

She felt him put his warm hand over hers, taking away the chill that she hadn't noticed until now. He took the iPod from her and gently removed the earbuds from her ears. The sound of her music ceased abruptly.

Her pulse quickened.

She felt his thumbs at her temples, felt his fingers brushing at her hair. He kissed her on the forehead, then on each eyelid, then on the tip of her nose, then on the lips.

She sat there frozen, hands in her lap, soaking in the sensation of his touch, the caress of his kisses.

She felt his tongue probe her lips, and she parted them in order to allow him in. His tongue drifted slowly over hers, and the warmth and taste of him made her feel as if she would melt into a puddle of hot wax.

The kiss was deep and thorough, and when he finally broke away, he said in a husky voice, "I'm very much alive, Azlin." Again, he commanded, "Look at me_._"

Reluctantly, still sure she was imagining it all, she opened her eyes and saw his handsome face close to hers in the moonlight, saw that his brow was furrowed in that soulful expression of his that she loved so much. Her heart pounded fiercely now, and she said in a shaky voice, "I'm drunk, and I'm hallucinating. I saw you die."

He was on his knees in front of her, and he took her hands in his and gave her an indulgent, amused smile. "You might be drunk, but you're not hallucinating." He kissed the palm of her hand.

A gigantic lump formed in her throat, and she shook her head in denial. "You're a ghost, then."

He placed her palm on his cheek and leaned his face into her touch. "You don't believe in ghosts, remember?"

For the first time, she noticed and felt the scratchiness of several days' growth of beard on his face, and she knew in that instant that the Sam she created in her dreams would _never_ have a beard. Her breath hitched on a tide of overwhelming exuberance and joy, and a choked cry escaped from her. She launched her body into him, hugging his neck tightly and knocking him over backwards with a thud on the wooden dock.

He laughed, and his powerful arms encircled her, pulling her close to him.

She was half laughing, half crying, warm tears spilling from her eyes, still not quite able to believe that he was flesh and blood; but she could feel his hard body beneath her, could feel the rise and fall of his chest. She started kissing his face, making her way over the unfamiliar whiskers and then down to the curve of his neck, absorbing every detail of him, wanting to fit a hundred kisses onto every inch of him.

"I'm so sorry," he said, sounding a little breathless.

"It's okay," she murmured in between kisses.

"I shouldn't have left the way I did."

She tried to hold back more tears from falling but was unsuccessful. "I freaked out and overreacted. I should never have called Justin."

He stroked her neck with his thumb. "Don't apologize for seeking out a friend for comfort. You didn't know what he would do."

"He drugged me, Sam," she said, tears spilling onto Sam's cheek. "I trusted him, and he kept your messages from me. He—"

"Shh," he said, rubbing the tears from her face with his fingers. "I know what he did."

"You do?"

He nodded. "It doesn't matter, now. Everything's okay."

She kissed him again on the lips. "Are you sure I'm not hallucinating?"

"Very," he said, and kissed her more deeply in return.

She said with remorse, "I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

He swallowed, and there was something like hope on his face. "But you do now?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes and laughed a little. "You just came back from the dead, Sam. I don't know how it happened, but I think it pretty much blows any lingering doubts I might have had out of the water."

He grinned, and even the new beard couldn't hide his deep dimples.

The sight took her breath away, and she looked at him with intensity. "I love you, Sam."

His eyes filled with emotion, and he looked away, jaw tensing as if trying to get control. When he looked back, he frowned and said, "Life with me won't be easy. In fact, it's probably gonna get pretty scary."

"I don't want easy. I want you."

"Things could get really dangerous, and I'm—" He broke off on a harsh laugh. "I'm kind of fucked up."

She wondered what he meant by that, wondered exactly what had happened to him in the past week, and she felt a tight ache in her heart. But whatever it was, she would help him get through it. She smiled with understanding and said, "I'm okay with fucked up, but we might need to get a bigger sofa for the supply closet."

He chuckled and pulled her tightly to him. "I love you, Azlin. You are my soul."

And those words, coming from Sam Winchester, were music to her ears.

_**TBC**_


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: If you haven't read Chapter 21, yet, read it before you read this! (I'm posting them on the same day.)**_

**Epilogue**

It was bedtime, and Azlin was lying on her back. She had on her usual tank and pajama shorts, and Sam had folded back the waistband of her shorts and scrunched up her shirt. He was kissing her on her hip bone, making his way to the tender spot on her belly just above her hip where she'd gotten an anti-possession tattoo that was identical to his, only smaller. She'd had it for a few months, now. His kisses were causing her body to tense in anticipation of the pleasure she knew was soon to come, and she ran her fingers through his thick, brown hair in encouragement, since his bare shoulders were just out of her reach.

Things hadn't been perfect since he'd come back to her, but they took the good with the bad, and when things were good, they appreciated it all the more, never taking their time together for granted. Sam was fully back in the hunt, trying to figure out a way to bring down Castiel, and, in the meantime, joining Dean and Bobby whenever they needed him for something more mundane, like killing a vampire or exorcising a demon or a salt-and-burn.

She had bought a small, private jet and paid a pilot to be on standby so that Sam could quickly get to Dean and Bobby when they needed him. It was good that Oklahoma was sort of in the middle of the US. Sam could almost always get to where he needed to be within two or three hours or less. He was usually only gone a week, sometimes a little more, sometimes less, and then he would come back. He always came back.

Sam hadn't wanted her to pay for anything at first, but she had just told him to get out of the Dark Ages and get used to being a kept man. Besides, now he didn't have to use fake credit cards anymore, which would hopefully keep him off the radar of law enforcement officials—at least the credit card fraud division. His fake IDs, computer hacking, auto theft, and occasional breaking and entering were another story. While she didn't like that he had to break the law, she knew it was necessary sometimes and figured she'd get him out of it somehow with an army of lawyers if he ever got caught. The same went for Dean and Bobby.

It was tough when Sam was gone, of course. She missed him something terrible and worried about his safety, and she even had a special prayer that she said for him and Dean and Bobby. She had made her peace with God. God had taken her parents, but he had given her Sam, and while she didn't understand some of the things that went on in the world, she had no doubt anymore that God existed.

She played with the band to get her mind off of Sam's absence and alleviate some of the pain of separation. When he was gone, she, Chad, and the rest of their bandmates would travel around, playing gigs all over the U.S., and they were gaining recognition as a national band. They'd found a new manager who was just as good as Justin, although she still felt a pang of sadness whenever she thought of her old friend. Although she couldn't forgive him for what he'd done, she couldn't help but feel a little pity for him. After all, she knew what it was like to be alone.

She tried to be philosophical about the dangers of Sam's "job." It was almost no different than loving a soldier or a fireman or a cop or an FBI agent. Sure, the things he hunted were horrifying and scary, but he had been specially trained to deal with them, and he'd been doing it almost his entire life.

They told people that he was a bounty hunter. It explained why he was gone a lot and also why he might come back sometimes with bruises and injuries after hunting down a particularly resistant "fugitive." She hated those times when he came back hurt, but she never complained. He was a hunter, and she had to take him in the package that he came in. The alternative—living life without him at all—was out of the question.

He had told her everything about his past, even about the horrible things he'd done when he'd been possessed by a demon and when he had no soul. She couldn't say that she wasn't disturbed by it, but those things had been done by someone else. It might have been his body, but she knew without a doubt that they never would have happened if he'd been himself.

The real Sam was kind and generous and compassionate and altruistic, and he would never hurt another innocent, living creature on purpose. On the contrary, he would give his life to protect it and had done so, had gone to hell to save billions of lives. He still risked his life on a regular basis so that others could be safe, and his hero was Ghandi, for Christ's sake. How could a man like that be evil? Thank God he didn't remember going to hell, that Joshua had at least protected him from those memories.

He had a hard time dealing with the guilt from the things he'd done as Soulless Sam, though, and, ironically, it was Sam who had the ghastly nightmares, now. He usually dealt with them internally in his strong, stoic way. He didn't have panic attacks like she'd had, but she could feel him shake sometimes in her arms after a particularly disturbing one, and she tried to comfort him the way he had comforted her.

He occasionally went for a day or two without saying much, brooding and spending a lot of time with the dogs, who worshiped him, or riding his favorite horse from the stable, and she knew that, again, he was dealing with his internal demons. She never wavered in her support of him and always tried to be there when he needed a comforting hug, a forgiving kiss, or was ready to talk.

His profound, brotherly bond with Dean helped, too, and they took things day by day. She didn't know if he'd ever be able to fully come to terms with what he'd done, but, for the most part, he seemed capable of still being happy with her, and maybe that's all they could ask for, at least for the time being. In the meantime, she would try her best to make him forget for a while, to make him see that he deserved a good life, that he was more than worthy, and that she loved him completely and unconditionally.

He made his way with his kisses over to her belly button, and she flinched and let out an involuntary giggle when he tickled her with his tongue.

He stopped and looked up at her, wicked dimples teasing her, blatant desire in his dark, mossy eyes.

The house phone rang on her nightstand, and they both stared at it with a mixture of surprise and disappointment at the interruption. Who would be calling this time of night on the land line? It was pretty much used just for business. It was so 1999, using a regular phone. She arched her brows, shrugged, and reached over to grab the cordless. "Hello?"

An overly-exaggerated, gruff voice said, "Azlin? It's Batman. I'm calling on the Batphone."

She rolled her eyes. "Dean, why do you get to be Batman and not Sam? He's the one living in the mansion like Bruce Wayne."

Sam smiled, rested his forehead on her belly for a second, and then moved to sit up against the headboard.

Azlin playfully snapped the black waistband of his gray boxers, admiring the way they accentuated his powerful thigh muscles.

"_You gotta be kidding me,"_ said Dean with disgust, his voice returning to normal. _"Sam's more like Alfred."_

She rolled her eyes again and said, "You're a dork."

"_I'm adorable."_

She could hear the cocky smile in his voice and tried not to laugh, shaking her head in mild disbelief. "Yeah. Right," she said, and handed the phone unceremoniously to Sam.

"Hey, Dean."

She scooched up next to Sam and kissed an old, thick scar on his shoulder before resting her head on it.

As he talked to his brother, he put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

She traced his cut pectoral muscles lightly with her fingers. She'd never been into muscle-head type guys, but Sam's chiseled, strong body never failed to leave her breathless.

She could tell by his side of the conversation that Dean had found another hunt, and she could feel a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It meant that Sam would have to leave soon, maybe even tonight, but she would never let him see how much it bothered her. She knew it was hard on him to leave, too, and she didn't want to make it worse for him by freaking out every time he had to go.

She'd learned that there was a give-and-take, a yin and yang, and letting him go off to fight evil was the price she had to pay for having the boundless joy of him in her life. Besides, he never left without assuring her he would be back, and she knew that Sam always kept his promises.

_**THE END**_

_**A/N: First of all, please let me know what you thought of the end of this, even if it's three years from now and you think I don't care anymore. I do, and I will always love to hear what people think! **_

_**I tried to tie up most of the loose ends, except for the things that were happening in canon. I've got some ideas for a sequel if anyone is interested, but I don't have a plot worked out yet, so I'm open to suggestions! I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me say to those of you who reviewed regularly, especially the ones who reviewed every chapter, you guys made my first fan fiction writing experience a delight. You also taught me how valuable it is to encourage writers and give them feedback after every chapter, and I'm vowing to return the favor for any future works in progress that I read. Before writing this, I only read completed stories (I was too impatient to wait for updates), but now I like the idea of passing on the positive vibes and motivation. Thanks again to all of you for reading. Cheers! -Liz**_


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